


the way back home

by not_so_weary_pilgrim



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Familial Relationships, Gen, friends/family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-09-18 11:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16994118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_so_weary_pilgrim/pseuds/not_so_weary_pilgrim
Summary: Harry Potter, through the eyes of the Weasleys





	1. Molly

**Author's Note:**

> Molly Weasley is the embodiment of my every aspiration in life.
> 
> Enjoy.

_A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all_ _things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path._

_-Agatha Christie_

**I.**

The first time she sees him, he is nothing more than a lost, uncertain little boy with big green eyes and good manners.

Once the train pulls away in a cloud of steam, she takes a morose Ginny out for an ice cream before going home. She sends her daughter out to muck the chickens, pours herself a cup of tea, and sits at the kitchen table to think.

Dumbledore was very secretive, even with the Order, where exactly he had sent the boy to live. She has supposed all these years it was family of some sort, but it would have had to be Muggles – James Potter’s entire family had been wiped out, much like the Prewetts.

More details stand out to her, as she peruses the chance meeting at King’s Cross. His trunk and owl all seemed brand new, and of very nice quality. This doesn’t surprise her, seeing as the Potters were quite well off and James was an only child. But the clothes the poor dear was wearing…

Molly frowns and sends her empty teacup over to the sink with a wave of her wand. She doesn’t understand one thing about Muggle fashion, but how anyone could wear such baggy, faded clothes and call it becoming was a mystery to her. It looked as though his shirt was about four sizes too big for him – though to be sure, he was an awfully small thing. His young face had been almost peaky.

Well, she decides, if there is one constant in this world, it is the quality (and abundance) of the food that comes out of the Hogwarts kitchens. Young Harry Potter will fatten up in time, surely.

She makes a mental note to write Ron and admonish him not to ask the poor boy any questions about You-Know-Who, and sets about doing the laundry.

\--

The twins are only given three detentions apiece before Christmas, which Molly gladly accepts as their gift to her. Ron writes frequently, but only of the useless tidbits of information that eleven year old boys think is crucial for their mothers to know: Quidditch scores and which subjects were the hardest and which classmates were the most annoying (she fights a smile at the four paragraphs her youngest son dedicates to a Miss Granger – he reminds her so strongly of Fabian sometimes that she is torn between laughter and tears).

To her surprise and pleasure, Ron has become fast friends with Harry Potter. Who, according to Ron, is polite and kind, if a bit quiet, and is “ _absolutely brilliant”_ at Quidditch.

She encourages the friendship, as any mother would when their child writes of such a positive influence, and it isn’t until after Halloween that she decides to put her official seal of approval on the matter.

_Dear, why don’t you ask Harry if he wants to trade off houses for the holidays? I’m sure he would be glad to introduce someone from school to his aunt and uncle, seeing as it’s his first time back. And your father and I would be delighted to meet him. He sounds like a very nice boy._

The letter she gets in reply sends her into a rage that is unprecedented, except for the time ten-year-old Charlie attempted to force baby Ginny’s magic by dropping her off the garden shed roof.

_I don’t think Harry’s going home at all for Christmas_ , Ron writes. _I asked him about trading off and he looked kinda scared. He says his aunt and uncle hate magic, even tried to keep his Hogwarts letter away from him when it came! I don’t think they’re very nice Muggles, Mum, when we were on the train he said he had never had any pocket money and always had to wear his fat cousin’s old clothes. I don’t think they want him to come home for Christmas. I don’t think he’s even expecting any presents from them._

Arthur watches her bang and slam pots all over the kitchen for two days after that. And then she starts her Christmas jumpers two weeks early, because there’s an extra one this year.

**II.**

Her sons show up at the crack of dawn, in a stolen bewitched car and a Harry that looks far skinnier than she remembers from the train station. He is still wearing baggy clothes, though at least someone has thought to fix his glasses properly instead of the poor dear taping them together.

He stares at everything and everyone in her house like it’s Hogwarts all over again, full of never-before-seen wonders.

Dishes that wash themselves and knitting needles that click away unassisted would surprise anyone raised by Muggles, so his curiosity does not bother her.

What does bother her is the fact that he eats like he expects his food to be taken away at any moment, and that whenever he drops something or knocks over a vase or accidently slams a door he looks at her with big, nervous green eyes as though bracing himself for a blow or a scolding.

She ignores the urge to take the bloody car back to Surrey herself and give those Muggles a _real_ reason to hate magic, and instead quits fussing at the twins for making too much noise, so that Harry will soon see the Burrow is not a place where he has to live in fear.

_Bars on his window, indeed_ , she fumes one morning. The children are all out playing Quidditch, though Harry had actually asked her if she had any chores that needed doing before Ron had drug him outside.

She takes out her anger on the breakfast dishes, and then makes an enormous treacle tart for dessert after supper.

/

The letter from McGonagall makes the entire world tilt on its axis. Arthur holds her hand tightly as they hurry to Dumbledore’s study, the Transfiguration teacher sweeping ahead. The halls are empty, with everyone sequestered in their common rooms, and for a moment Molly aches to hold the rest of her children close, to make sure they are safe.

But Dumbledore is grave, graver than they have ever seen him, and cannot even give them much by way of explanation. Someone presses a clean handkerchief into her hands, someone else tries to get Arthur to drink a cup of tea, and she is on the verge of screaming when the door opens.

Harry is pale, still too skinny, and covered from head to foot in filth and blood. His robes are torn, as are Ron’s, and there, standing between them –

_“Ginny!”_

Over the next few days, the whole story comes out in many fits of tears and many nights of terrible dreams that wake up her eleven-year-old daughter in cold sweats.

Ron’s participation earns him a proper scolding, with even his father joining in every few sentences. But at the end of it she hugs him tightly, just so he knows she is proud of him all the same. Because if her own children will not protect each other when she is not there – who will?

The moment the question pops into her head, she snorts.

Harry will, of course.

**III.**

Egypt was precisely what they all needed. Ginny’s smiles are more frequent, if not quite as bright as they used to be. But she has not had nightmares in weeks, and Ron’s new wand seems to give him a desire to return to school rather than simply dreading it.

Arthur – wisely – does not tell Molly of Harry’s incident and disappearance until they are back home, packing their things to stay the remaining days of the summer at the Leaky Cauldron. Still, she is glad to see him, safely off the streets.

He has grown a couple of inches, which if anything only makes him look skinnier. She fusses at him to eat extra helpings of every meal, makes him and Ron both check their trunks in equal measure. Ron huffs in irritation, but Harry only nods and scurries off to do her bidding – and not so fast that she doesn’t see the odd glow in his eyes he always gets under her mothering.

/

She sends an extra batch of fudge for his Christmas present – _dementors_ of all things, as though the poor dear needed something else to cope with – and admonishes the twins and Ron to make sure he takes it easy after a fifty-foot drop off a broom.

_Quidditch_. She shakes her head and reminds Arthur to make sure and get an extra ticket for Ron’s friends for the World Cup, and glows with pride when Ron informs her that Harry has learned to cast a real Patronus.

**IV.**

The morning paper brings the nightmares of her childhood roaring back to life, and she suffocates them all in equal measure when they come trudging across the lawn.

Harry looks worried, in those quiet sunny days full of Quidditch in the orchard and meals eaten out in the garden, but he is polite as ever and his appetite seems to have multiplied by ten overnight. She cooks and fusses and goes to buy his books and makes sure he has enough quills and ink to last him the term – and all the while thanking Merlin for Dumbledore’s promise of an Age Line.

/

Ron’s letters are suspiciously void of Harry at first. She thinks maybe he is trying to keep her from worrying, but then Charlie writes to her after the first task to assure her of Harry’s wellbeing, and Ron’s next epistle is nearly four pages long and talks of almost nothing but Harry.

A row, then, she thinks, and sends a batch of Ron’s favorite biscuits just for him.

/

It is stupid, utterly stupid, to have been upset over magazine articles and falsified interviews. Molly sits in the hospital wing that is empty and silent and tries to keep her temper somewhat under control.

“Molly, if I knew where he was, I would go fetch him; he was bleeding and the last thing he needs is to answer Dumbledore’s questions. But the Headmaster insisted.”

Molly knows Poppy is telling the truth, but she fidgets in her seat all the same. She tries to forget the look on Harry’s face when Dumbledore pulled him away from the Diggory boy, tries to block out his cries of _sorry sorry I’m so so sorry_ to Amos.

He is only fourteen, but when Dumbledore brings him through the door Molly takes one look at his face and knows that the small, uncertain boy with the kind manners and easy smile is gone.

She watches him sleep, notices that he is pale and still underfed, that even with the potion his body does not truly relax. She fusses with his sheets, enforces strict silence from the others, and when those big green eyes open again she wants to weep at the innocence that was there only this morning (not that there was much of it to begin with).

He fights any show of emotion, as fourteen year old boys often feel is expected of them, but Molly puts her arms around him and strokes his hair as he falls asleep, somehow knowing that the last time someone held him like this was in a little house in Godric’s Hollow.

**V.**

She is expecting it, but the change in Harry is still hard to witness. He is angry, quiet, and so prone to outbursts that poor Hermione’s nerves are frazzled before they even get their school letters.

Another son making prefect is reason enough to celebrate, even if she manages to spoil the mood by a boggart taking full advantage of her overactive imagination.

She doesn’t miss the shocked look Harry gives her when he sees his own dead body on the floor; part of her wants to shake him. Has he forgotten that Sirius isn’t the first person to take care of him?

But after that, Harry lets her fuss over him a bit more than usual. He almost seems guilty for the stress that the Order (or, rather, the necessity of it) is bringing them all, though it is surely not his fault.

He also clings to his godfather, though, with the desperation of a lion cub. Her mother’s heart is stung but she cannot _really_ blame him, as much as she wishes at times that Sirius would keep his mouth shut. She contents herself with piling food on Harry’s plate and tries to pretend that all of this is from being fifteen, and not mainly from being tortured in a graveyard.

**VI.**

She is expecting, in the aftermath of losing his godfather, for Harry to be even surlier than before. Which is why she is pleasantly surprised when he seems to regain some form of his usual good cheer, helping with chores and playing Quidditch in the orchard.

Ron tells her that Dumbledore spoke with him, shared more secrets about his parents and You-Know-Who and she supposes that it is Harry’s right to know, but that doesn’t make it less hard for her to imagine him, skinny and now over a foot taller than he was two months ago, sitting alone in the Headmaster’s office and grieving in a way that not even Molly’s cooking or fussing can heal.

But he comes home for Christmas, and when the Minister storms out of the gate and Harry comes inside with his jaw set, Molly is so proud she could cry even more than she already is for Percy.

And then McGonagall Floos them, and she is left staring down at her firstborn, her baby boy, carved up like a butcher’s block. Fleur takes over his bandaging with admirable poise, which is all the proof Molly needed to know that the French girl has what it takes to be a Weasley.

/

The full story of Dumbledore’s death registers with her in bits and pieces – that night was so fraught with fear and the awful uncertainty of Bill’s health that not much of anything that was said stuck. But when she learns that Harry was with his mentor, saw the curse cast and even tried to catch Snape, only to return unsuccessful and find Dumbledore’s body –

She wants to scream.

This boy, with the green eyes and nice manners and easy smile and ability to ease Ron and Hermione down from each other’s throats…how much more must he lose? She wants to go outside and bellow at the sky. What else must be taken from him? He never knew love until he came under her roof, the school where he has almost died at least once a year has been safer for him than his own family’s house.

He has been torn apart, and been forced to put himself back together only because the world needs him to, and when it is done hiding behind its savior it rips him open all over again. His heart is scarred, and Molly is terrified beyond words that one day soon it will be beyond healing, that he will refuse to care or love any longer simply because it has never brought him anything but pain.

**VII.**

Bill’s wedding is the one bright spot on her horizon.

The security measures in place make everything at least twenty times more hectic than normal, but Weasleys have never done anything by halves and Molly supposes the wedding of her firstborn could not be an exception. It would probably bring bad luck.

Harry has been avoiding her eyes since everyone’s arrival at the Burrow. It is not hard for her guess why, with the way his jaw tightens every time George walks into a room and shouts at everyone as though deaf. Everyone else’s laughter seems to make it worse, until Fred makes one too many puns and Harry shoves his chair back from the table and goes outside without looking at anyone.

“Did I – “ Fred frowns.

“Nah.” Ron, her barely-seventeen-year-old, follows the friend who has both nearly gotten him killed and saved him in equal measure. “He’s just being a self-deprecating git, is all. He’ll be all right.”

The boys have a heated discussion in the garden, which ends with Ron shoving Harry nearly into a bush full of gnomes. But when they come back inside Harry looks calmer, and looks right at Molly when he thanks her for dinner.

/

They disappear from the wedding.

And then one spring evening, Bill arrives shouting in the yard, and they leave for Muriel’s because her children are at Shell Cottage and were captured by Death Eaters and –

She takes a deep breath, acutely aware of Ginny’s presence next to her on Muriel’s sofa.

_They got away,_ she reminds herself _. They got away, and you’ll see them again soon, and everything will be fine._

She’s wrong.

/

After six Christmas jumpers, endless meals, a year of not knowing whether any of them would live to see tomorrow, and a battle that broke stone and smeared blood on marble floors and left her son, once so golden and full of warmth and laughter, lying cold in the ground under the oak tree near where the kids played Quidditch in the summer – well.

A lot has happened.

But Molly knows that one thing has not changed: this boy, with the big green eyes and nice manners is _hers_ , in all the ways he has never been Petunia’s, in all the ways he should have been Lily’s.

His smiles are not as quick; gone is the boy who daydreamed of skiving off class to go fly his broomstick outside. Instead he spends nearly all his time at the castle, repairing walls and corridors. When he is not there he is at the Ministry, testifying in the seventy-eight cases of accused Death Eaters.

And when he is not _there_ , he is not at the Burrow. Not at first, anyway. Come to find out, he was simply hiding in a room at the Leaky Cauldron in between times, perhaps getting four or five hours of sleep, until one day they all had enough and Arthur went with Ron to fetch him.

(He shuffled over to her immediately and mumbled he was very sorry for making her worry, he didn’t want to be a bother and thought they would like some time to grieve – she hugged him tightly, mostly to stop the ramble. He patted her back and ate four helpings of everything at dinner before he collapsed into bed and didn’t move for sixteen hours.)

He is putting back the weight she spent years coaxing onto his gangly frame; his hair is long, enough that he keeps it tied back in a messy knot on the back of his head. He doesn’t shave regularly, and the oldness in his eyes will never go away.

But Molly heard him laugh this morning, and that is enough to keep her going for now. She has lost one son, she cannot bear to lose another – even this one, to himself.

She is not so foolish, though, to think that everything is back to normal.

Some mornings there are bags under his eyes that weren’t there the night before. Some days he doesn’t speak a word, and merely sits, lost in thought. Some days he cannot get enough of his godson, and others the mere mention of Teddy will make his jaw tighten and those green eyes will grow glassy until he mutters an excuse and flees the room.

Harry Potter is a man – a _man_ , her mother’s heart sighs in bittersweet pride – of untold strength. His scrawny, teenage shoulders have borne the heaviest burden there is.

But sometimes, he needs to let those shoulders droop just a bit. And in some strange way, she is glad it is here, at the table where she has fed him and fussed over his shirt collar.

Molly could not sleep, which is not uncommon. But Arthur was snoring beside her and with both of them missing sleep nowadays she did not want to wake him. She wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her, and puttered down to the kitchen, in hopes that a cup of tea would do the trick.

Harry is seated at the scrubbed kitchen table, with a cold cup of tea sitting in front of him. He is wearing one of her Christmas jumpers and a ragged pair of sweatpants; he is unshaven and the knot of his hair has mostly fallen down, a few strands clinging to the elastic out of stubbornness.

He does not notice her, not at first, and she feels strangely honored to see this side of him, all sleepy mussed edges, with no attempt to hide the weariness that settled into his too-young bones long ago.

When he does spot her, he sits more upright and scrubs at his face quickly – but not quickly enough to hide the shining tears on his face.

Having experience in such things, Molly bustles about with the kettle. “Mind if I join you, dear?”

“’Course.”

She is facing away from him, and bites her lip. He sounds so old, so tired. He is seventeen.

Once she is seated beside him, though around the corner at the head of the table, he takes out his wand and pokes at his own cup to warm it again.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

She hums. “I imagine we’re all going to need time, to adjust to not having to look over our shoulders every minute. Arthur is out, though, so one of us will be well rested.”

He manages a tiny smile – nothing like his usual impish grin, more of a bare twitch of his mouth than anything – but Molly grabs at it with both hands.

“Harry, dear, you’ve been sleeping the worst of all of us. You really ought to try and take the Dreamless Sleep Potion they sent home from Mungo’s.”

“I have.” He sips his tea, and she recognizes the signs of a teenage boy who wants to avoid a conversation. “Doesn’t work.”

“Dear – “

“They’re not dreams, Molly,” he says, with the sharp tone of someone who has realized the conversation they don’t want to have is in fact happening, whether they like it or not. “They’re memories, and I can’t forget, no matter how much I want to.”

Molly sits quietly, at a loss of what to do next until she sees his chin tremble.

“I wish I _could_ forget,” he gasps, and she’s standing next to his chair before she even realizes she’s moving. She pulls his face into her, as she did her children when they were small and bumped their heads or skinned their knees. His arms wind around her, shoulders shaking with sobs, seeking an anchor in midst of the storm that has been raging inside him since he was hardly older than his own godson is now.

“Shh, darling,” she croons, stroking his messy hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

She begins to rock back and forth as the Boy Who Lived falls apart in the only mother’s embrace he has ever known.

/


	2. Arthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s personal encounters with Arthur are rather few and far between in the books, though this in no way diminishes the impact Arthur has on Harry as a father figure. It just means there are more text breaks in this one than there were in Molly’s. Hopefully it still flows okay, let me know if it’s irritating to read through like it is. 
> 
> These are meant to kind of fit together, since it’s the same story from different perspectives. Still, I’m not perfect so there might be some mistakes in minor details. Whatever.

Arthur hears a great deal about Harry Potter before he ever meets the boy.

Which is normal, really, with a child as famous as he is, most people have heard and read many things about him. But Arthur sends his youngest son off to Hogwarts and is pleasantly surprised to learn that their Ron shares classes and a dormitory with young Potter.

Molly met him at the train station, he learns, and the child seemed very polite, if rather quiet. Privately, Arthur thinks that is perhaps why Ron is drawn to him – with a family as large and rambunctious as theirs, Ron’s voice often gets lost in the din of his siblings. Having a best mate who can actually hear him must be a refreshing change of pace.

As that first year of Ron’s schooling goes on, Arthur does not concern himself too much with Harry Potter. He is busy at work, with legislation and raids and putting every Knut they can spare aside so they can afford to send Ginny off the next year, and quite simply more often than not Arthur forgets all about the existence of The Boy Who Lived.

He is reminded at Christmas, when Ron’s letter infuriates Molly and she makes an extra jumper and batch of fudge (he reads the letter, too, and his father’s heart is pricked at the thought of a young boy with nobody at home who seems to want him; he works a few extra shifts and scrapes together enough money to rent an extra owl to help Errol carry all of the additional Christmas presents this year).

He is reminded again, at the end of term when Ron comes home and the first things out of his mouth are _can Harry come visit this summer_ and _Dad how do I use a fellytone_.

Arthur is glad for his son, that he has a friend like this. Someone to look forward to seeing again, someone to write and someone he wants to come over for the summer holidays.

Ron is bright and caring, capable of far more than he thinks, and Arthur’s dearest wish for him at Hogwarts was that he would manage to make a friend and not follow his brothers around everywhere. Percy would crush his spirits, fussing about rules and specks of dirt on his shoes. Fred and George would land their younger brother in detention enough times to give their mother cause to rip her hair out.

And so without really knowing him, Arthur is very glad for Harry Potter.

 

**II.**

His wife’s wrath is certainly something to be reckoned with but –

_The car works._

And what’s more, his sons used it for a very good cause. Each night when he comes home Molly informs him of more insights she has had of “Harry’s Muggles”, as they’ve been dubbed at the Burrow.

Apparently the lad was locked in his room, deprived of his school things and letters, and – according to Molly, anyway – “practically starved half to death”. Arthur is proud of his boys, for although they break the rules so often that it is difficult to remember what the rules even are, they only do so for either harmless reasons or noble ones.

Harry Potter, he discovers upon meeting him, lives up to his reputation of being an extremely polite, but timid lad. He gawks at everything in the house much the way Arthur himself would in a Muggle place of residence, and is happy to explain everything he knows about plugs and the Underground.

All in all, a pleasant boy. He and Ron are thick as thieves, he seems to be very impressed with Molly’s cooking – and unaware of the way her nostrils flare at the merest _mention_ of how he’s never eaten so well.

They send Ginny off to school in second robes and a rusty cauldron. Arthur goes back to the platform to search for the boys, and promptly has a heart attack when he sees the empty space where the blue Ford Anglia was not twenty minutes ago.

Once Molly sends her Howler, Arthur decides to let bygones be bygones. The boys did no lasting damage, and they meant no harm. Besides, his wife’s anger will likely carry her through Halloween and _that_ is enough punishment for anybody.

His daughter’s letters become less frequent and less cheerful; she is remarkably shy around anyone who is not one of her brothers, and he feared she would not make friends as easily. He admonishes the boys to look after her, make certain she is eating and not being bullied by any of the other children.

It doesn’t do much good, he notices. Once the attacks at the school start happening he and Molly spend many sleepless nights, wondering if they are putting their children in danger by leaving them at Hogwarts. Ginny especially seems distraught over the incidences, asking him over and over again if the victims would be all right.

He reassures her as best he can, and even writes to McGonagall to ask how his daughter is faring, if this first year away from home is simply hitting her harder than it has his other children.

Then one late spring evening, he and Molly are summoned to the school, because his baby girl is _gone_.

The hours after this discovery will mostly remain a blur in Arthur’s memory until his dying day. Vaguely he remembers Molly’s face pressed into his shoulder as his robes there grew damp, a cup of tea that he let go cold pushed into his hand, the too-bright shine of McGonagall’s eyes as she sat with them while outside the sky grew dark and somewhere in the castle Ginny’s body grew cold.

Then the door opens, and Arthur cannot remember very much about _that_ next hour, either. He knows he stroked Ginny’s hair over and over again, unwilling to not touch her in some way. He remembers the crushing despair in his gut when he realized all his teachings, his admonitions and warnings to his children have failed to keep them safe.

Ginny comes home on the train with her brothers, pale and thin and a bit more quiet, but she puts her little arms around his middle and lets him kiss the top her head, and Arthur lets himself imagine her smiles returned to their former brightness.

 

**III.**

Bill’s hair is longer, and he has an earring now. Molly nearly faints when she sees it.

Percy makes Head Boy, Fred and George show absolutely no signs of taking their OWLs seriously, and –

Sirius Black breaks out of Azkaban, and two weeks later _Harry goes missing_.

Arthur nearly Apparates straight back from Cairo when he hears the news. The magic Harry performed on his aunt does not concern him or anybody else nearly as much as does Harry’s unprotected roaming of London while the conspirator of his parents’ murders is on the loose.

He is surprised, though perhaps he shouldn’t be, at how the thought of Harry being in danger makes him feel. The boy has spent a summer under his roof, has proven to be a good friend to Ron, and brought Ginny back from death’s doorstep not even six months ago. The fact that a deranged lunatic escaped Azakaban with the express purpose of killing Harry makes Arthur’s jaw clench and his knuckles tighten a little more around his wand.

The poor kid doesn’t even know the story, for Merlin’s sake. How old is he going to be before he learns the whole truth of why his parents died?

That’s a question for Dumbledore, and Arthur has no doubt the headmaster has things well in hand when he hears of how the dementors on the train were addressed.

Molly goes into fits when Ron tells her of Harry’s reaction; Arthur grimaces but wonders how they had not guessed it before now. The boy’s parents were murdered right in front of him when he was one; the fact that any emotional scarring is only just now making itself apparent is nothing short of a miracle.

He helps Molly with multiple batches of fudge that Christmas. He hears of Harry’s Patronus and is impressed, though is not surprised – the boy has a gift for defensive magic thrumming in his bones, even without the rise of dark wizards.

Ron returns home sans Scabbers and when questioned merely shrugs and says that the small owl was a gift from a friend. Arthur squints at him before he gets distracted over the squabble his youngest two have over the owl’s name, because Ginny’s eyes are sparking just like they used to.

He thinks Ron notices as well, because he admits defeat far more quickly than he once would have.

 

**IV.**

Arthur really is very sorry about the fireplace.

But as he’s standing there covered in dust and bits of plaster, and Harry mutters his farewell with the air of someone who is at last presented with the escape they have been desperately seeking, Arthur suddenly sees for himself what Molly has been telling him for the past two years.

Vernon Dursley is – not that Arthur’s children will ever hear him say it – an absolute _prick_.

Arthur pauses to wrangle a proper goodbye from the horrid man, resists the urge to simply vanish and let their grotesquely shaped son choke to death on his own piggishness. But he’s better than that, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Fred did not drop those candies by accident. He puts the boy back to rights, and lets his wife handle matters from there without too much guilt.

He listens to Percy rambling about cauldron regulations, places bets with Charlie and the twins on how long Bill will fend off Molly’s attempts at cutting his hair, watches Harry’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree when he sees the stadium.

(Something hurts, twisting and sharp in his chest, and he realizes it’s because _he_ shouldn’t be the one doing this – taking Harry to his first professional Quidditch game. But who else is there?)

And then green lights up the sky, and he pushes Ginny towards Fred and George, glances after the children he can still protect, can still order to hide and keep safe, while his oldest two sons follow him into the fray. He wishes more than anything he could send them back as well. But they are not children, they are men. They were raised to fight, to have courage; he can hardly dissuade them now.

His heart falls straight through his stomach when he sees Harry yank Ron and Hermione to the ground just before the Stunning spells soar through the air above them. He manages to get them away from Crouch, from the power-hungry gleam in his eyes, and shepherds them all back to the Burrow so Molly can smother them.

For the rest of the summer, everything remains on edge – like the whole world is holding its breath.

Hermione won’t get off her soap box about Crouch’s house elf, Ron is enamored with his Krum figurine, and Harry’s green eyes are wide, confused, and he keeps rubbing at the peculiar scar on his forehead when he thinks no one is watching.

/

Molly, despite his warnings, takes _Witch Weekly_ a little too seriously.

She also gets rather snappish when he protests that Harry is certainly _not_ interested in Hermione – Arthur personally witnessed the boy walk straight into a column at King’s Cross when a pretty Asian girl waved at him from across the platform.

But despite Charlie’s reassurances after the dragon, despite Dumbledore being present at every match, Arthur cannot forget the disquiet he saw in Harry’s eyes during those last few days of summer.

/

Bill arrives at the Burrow just before dawn. He looks pale but steady; Arthur knows it’s bad news before his son even takes off his cloak.

“The Diggory kid is dead. You-Know-Who is back, Harry witnessed the whole thing.”

Arthur’s knees give and he sits down hard at the kitchen table. Wearily he runs one hand through his hair, indescribably glad that Molly went to watch the final task. The mere thought of Harry all alone after the horrors he has undoubtedly witnessed is something like physical pain.

“Harry – “

“He looks terrible.” Bill must see the panicked look in Arthur’s eyes, the one that every child recognizes in their parent, for he hastily adds, “But Mum’s with him. Dumbledore…he had Harry tell the story before he let him rest. Said it would be easier for him that way. At first Mum was livid but I reckon he was right.” Bill hesitates. “Pomfrey gave him Dreamless Sleep Potion and he’s still crying a bit without waking up.”

Arthur sends a silent, desperate apology to James Potter, wherever he is, that they have all failed to protect his son from this.

But there is no time for grieving – not yet. There is work to do.

 

**V.**

Fred and George begin their final year with all the careless flamboyance expected; Percy has all but disowned them because he thinks Arthur is lazy and doesn’t want the best for his family.

Hermione is defending a house elf that is determined to insult her with his every breath; Harry is suddenly prone to shouting and _Sirius Black_ , in a shocking turn of events, is probably one of the people who is most willing to die for Harry.

Arthur wonders if perhaps _actually_ going mental would be simpler than his life is now: whispering around portraits, escorting Harry Potter to a disciplinary hearing because he saved his worthless lump of a cousin’s life, and forbidding his underage daughter from participating in meetings about defeating You-Know-Who.

Still, he remembers three years ago when he would have given his wand to see Ginny so full of life, and then every slammed door is music to his ears.

/

They knew it was coming, but the thin, whispering scrape of scales on the wood floor still sends cold fear down to his bones that cold night on guard duty, just before the blinding, searing pain and suffocating darkness.

He wakes up in a bright white room, a familiar face pale with worry and wreathed in bright red curls smiling down at him.

“Hello, dear.”

Molly doesn’t let him sit up, instead helps him sip some potion for the pain.

“How did you find me?”

Molly bites her lip. “Harry saw it, in his sleep. Ron says they woke up McGonagall and she took them straight to Dumbledore.”

Arthur is grateful – he cannot express how much – but something in his father’s heart wilts a little bit. To have _this_ laid on Harry’s shoulders as well…

“They’re all at headquarters,” Molly interjects, as though she knew where his thoughts were headed (as is likely the case). “Harry’s been avoiding everyone, but Ron and Hermione will be able to talk him round.”

Arthur nods, looks up at his wife and sees the answer to his unspoken question in her eyes.

“He won’t want to come see you.”

He nods again. “I know. But I need you to bring him here. Otherwise he’ll think he’s right.”

She smiles and smooths his thinning hair. “Of course, dear. But you need to get your strength back if you want him to feel better, too. Get some rest.”

/

Whatever has been said to him must have worked; Harry looks far calmer during his second visit to St. Mungo’s and much more so after they are all returned to Grimmauld Place. From his place at the kitchen table, Arthur wonders if perhaps, rather than Hermione or Ron, Ginny had anything to do with it – Harry looks at her a bit differently, as though he has only ever been able to see in shades of grey until now and is equally fascinated and intimidated by the fire of her hair.

Arthur smiles to himself, and thanks Harry profusely for his fantastic present. The boy smiles bashfully and ruffles his hair, which makes Arthur frown at the shine of white on the back of his hand.

Harry doesn’t notice, but Ron does.

Later that afternoon, Ron will find a quiet moment to tell him about Harry’s detentions, of the words carved into his hand as a permanent reminder that the horrors he has suffered have, thus far, been for nothing.

Arthur has always known that Fudge is an idiot, and has always suspected that this Umbridge woman is one enchanted tattoo away from being a Death Eater, and is cheerfully awaiting the day Dumbledore puts her in her place. But _this_ …

He decides he won’t tell Molly.

Not yet, anyway.

/

The look on Snape’s face when he tells them that two of their children have run off to face a group of Death Eaters makes Molly sway alarmingly where she stands. Arthur reaches for her, but he doesn’t feel much steadier himself.

It takes Dumbledore raising his voice for them to stay behind; the only reason Sirius is going is because he’s _going_ , to snap You-Know-Who’s own wand in half with his teeth if need be to protect Harry.

Arthur can only sit at the table, hand in hand with his wife, and wait.

/

By (even worse) contrast, the look on Remus’ face when he staggers back into the kitchen nearly sends Arthur to the floor in a dead faint. Remus, good man that he is, pulls himself out of his drunken stupor and hurries forward.

“The kids are all right. A few scrapes and minor injuries, nothing they can’t handle at the school.”

Molly sobs into the glass of firewhiskey Bill poured for her hours ago. Arthur takes a moment to savor the relief pounding through him and then says, quietly, “Remus?”

Blank eyes meet his. “Sirius.”

Arthur clenches his jaw; it is too much, it’s not _fair_ , for Harry to lose this. Harry has learned, slowly, to trust in Molly’s fussing and doting, and in Arthur’s patience and guidance. But Sirius taught Harry to shave, over the summer. He taught Harry about James, and about Lily, and what it was to be on the winning side of the fight even when it doesn’t feel like you’re winning at all.

And Remus.

Arthur manages to catch him, just as his knees hit the floor and the harsh, grating sounds echo from his chest.

Remus, in his tattered robes and lonely full moons. Remus, with his survivor’s guilt and penchant for only seeing himself as a wolf possessed by a man, rather than the other way around. Remus, with the grief pouring so strongly from him it nearly knocks Arthur backwards as the younger man claws at him, seeking a foothold.

Arthur can’t do anything but hold him, and so he does.

 

**VI.**

Harry is, Merlin bless him, halfway to becoming an Auror.

Arthur should really tell Mad-Eye; the old man would really be quite impressed.

He sends the kids off on the train, achingly aware of the fact that a year ago Harry had someone else to bid farewell to. Molly has assured him that the boy is doing quite well; Ron and Hermione kept him busy this summer, the former with Quidditch in the orchard and the latter with obsessively reviewing their OWLS.

It isn’t long before disturbing news starts arriving with the morning post. A girl is attacked in Hogsmeade, by a cursed necklace that managed to avoid killing her by sheer luck. More and more names are listed in disappearances, the weather grows fouler and colder, and Arthur can only hold his family close and brace for the coming storm.

/

He finds an absurd amount of comfort in the small things: Ron writes an entire roll of parchment ranting about Ginny running around, snogging boys in dark corridors. Ginny writes her own letter, though it is far shorter and merely claims that her father ought to be proud, as she did not jinx Ron’s bits off.

And he _is_ proud, though for different reasons. The summer of the World Cup, when Ginny was thirteen, he and Bill taught her a number of useful defensive spells they felt were practical for a young witch to know. But she is not a thirteen year old child any longer; she is a young woman who knows when restraint is the wisest course.

(Charlie taught her to throw a punch, and he thinks the restraint is a bit harder for her to practice with that).

/

They manage to scrape together enough money on his new salary to send Ron a brand new watch for his seventeenth birthday.

Then Molly Floos him at work, frantic; they follow McGonagall quickly down the corridor to the hospital wing. Harry, as he expected, is seated closest to the bed and looks nearly as pale as Ron. He stutters and flushes under Molly’s thanks, but Arthur is – momentarily – distracted by the awful tightness that lie in the shadows under Hermione’s eyes.

Perhaps he is imagining things.

But then Hermione and Harry leave, and Ron talks in his sleep. And _that_ isn’t imagined.

/

Bill… _Bill_.

He can only stare down at his son, watching as Molly and Fleur weep together and tend to the wounds that mar the once handsome face.

Outside the window, a phoenix cries, and Harry holds onto Ginny’s hand as they sit in the hospital wing, minds weighed down with the memory of the fallen.

 

**VII.**

Ginny comes home from King’s Cross and shuts herself up in her room. She refuses to play Quidditch, which greatly confuses the twins. To everyone’s surprise, Ron speaks up on her behalf.

“Leave her alone. Her boyfriend ditched her just before term ended.”

Being the brothers they are, Fred and George immediately demand to know the boy’s name and where they might find him. Ron refuses to divulge any more information, though he catches Arthur late at night, fixing a cup of tea.

“You know, don’t you?”

Arthur reaches into a high cupboard to retrieve his “secret” stash of chocolate biscuits. “Know that Harry’s in love with your sister? I’m not blind, son.”

Ron chokes on his tea. Arthur nibbles a biscuit and waits, patient.

“Er…I don’t think he’s really – “

“Ron.” Arthur sighs. “What did he tell you?”

His son fidgets. “Well – he said she was already used as bait for him once, and that was when she was just his best mate’s sister. He didn’t want to have to face you and Mum if something worse happened.”

Vaguely, Arthur wonders when he learned to read Harry with the same accuracy with which he reads the twins.

“I don’t suppose that’s all of it?” Ron asks, finally cottoning on.

Arthur smiles, thin and brittle.

All might be fair in love and war, but war is so _horribly_ unfair to those who dare to love.

“No, Ron, that’s not it. He would never forgive himself. And, while I certainly don’t enjoy the fact that your sister is upstairs nursing a broken heart…I think he did the right thing.”

“So do I,” Ron says quickly.

“But Harry’s probably feeling just as miserable as she is. I imagine it’s very strange, seeing them together. But after everything he’s been through…don’t you think Harry deserves to be happy?”

Ron doesn’t answer, but when he gets up some time later to go to bed, he squeezes Arthur’s shoulder, and it’s enough.

/

Bill’s wedding begins with bright smiles and happy tears.

It ends with Ginny screaming as masked figures stand above her and laugh, with Arthur devoutly thankful for Ron’s idea of transfiguring the ghoul, and with the hope in his chest threatening to fade alongside his Patronus as it flies into the night.

/

Ginny comes home for Easter, her eyes full of shadows and her hands shaking whenever she tries to hold anything steady. Arthur often catches her looking out the window more than once, towards the orchard where happy, carefree children once played in the bright sunshine. He tentatively mentions her staying home, and is equally terrified and relieved when she only shrugs in agreement.

When Bill bursts through the door and they grab whatever they can get their hands on and Apparate to Muriel’s, Arthur tries very hard not to think about what this means for his youngest two sons, for the girl that has singlehandedly kept them alive all these years.

Bill won’t say anything to his father, which is for the best since Ginny and Molly both are determined to eavesdrop. But he doesn’t stay long, and shows up a few days later with a frail Ollivander, a thin, ghost-like Luna and a surprised Dean who looks as thrilled to see Ginny as she looks disappointed to see him.

It makes for a long, tense spring, with the twins eventually joining them and running their shop out of Muriel’s back parlor. Even Molly cannot find it in herself to fuss at them for it; she is aware now more than ever of the need to find joy in the small moments, to distract her from the mind-numbing fear that plagues them all otherwise.

/

As is always the case, the hours of the battle are long, and Arthur can only remember bits and pieces that are disjointed and fumbled together until he is not sure when anything happened, only that it did.

The crushed look on Ginny’s face when Harry does not ask her to fight beside him.

Remus seeing his wife running towards him during a brief lull in the fight, and embracing her with such fierce affection that it makes Arthur’s throat feel tight.

Percy pressing his face into Arthur’s shoulder, mumbling apologies that don’t matter nearly as much as his presence does.

Ginny catching George when his knees buckle as he walks into the Great Hall and sees Fred.

Arthur finds time in the weeks after to assist in the rebuilding. It is strangely cathartic to be in the place where his son died, to put stone and marble and glass back together. It makes Fred’s absence matter, somehow – there is a Hogwarts to rebuild in the first place, and that means they have won. Even if the price was higher than any of them could have imagined…

They have won.

/

It will take months for anything to feel remotely normal again. The funerals are at last all finished by early July, which would ordinarily mean Harry would be round more often. But they have seen neither hair nor hide of him since the service for Colin Creevey.

Molly keeps watching the windows, Ginny keeps resolutely _not_ watching the windows, and at last Ron has had enough. Arthur accompanies him to the Leaky Cauldron and Ron checks with the innkeeper – a former classmate, apparently – before stomping up the stairs and all but beating down the door.

Harry looks wretched – unshaved, pale and with bruise-like circles under his eyes.

Ron’s ire vanishes upon seeing him.

“Come home, mate.”

Harry stares at him.

“I – don’t you…I thought you’d all need time – “

Ron huffs and pushes his way into the room, gathering Harry’s things with the particular manner of someone who has shared living space with a person for the past seven years. He finishes, hands Harry his rucksack, and firmly guides his friend out the door while Arthur watches meekly from the sidelines.

“Mum’s making treacle tart.”

Arthur just manages to catch the ghost of a smile that flits across Harry’s face as the boy follows Ron down the stairs.

/

Harry begs them for a simple family dinner in lieu of a birthday party.

A simple Weasley dinner, though, still requires them to eat in the garden. It is a balmy evening, with the sky melting into dark purple while lit candles float above the table. The food is abundant, the laughter less so, but George is talking with Charlie (Arthur thinks it might be about using dragon products in some new inventions) and Ginny is playing footsie with Harry across from her while Ron, oblivious, rattles on about upcoming Auror training.

Arthur takes a deep breath, savoring the moment. He looks at Harry, who seems remarkably comfortable with the game he and Ginny are playing right under Ron’s nose, and is very glad for the resourcefulness of one Ted Tonks.

After dinner, he manages to find a moment away from the others.

“Harry, might I show you something?”

Surprised, Harry follows him to the shed where Arthur keeps his collections. Batteries and plugs and a detailed map of the Underground that Hermione gave him one Christmas clutter the shelves; Arthur was astounded to find that the Death Eaters didn’t burn it to the ground, until Bill admitted to placing heavy protective enchantments on it.

He heads to the very back, and pulls the tarp off in one smooth movement.

Harry’s jaw swings open.

“I believe Sirius left you everything, so this is yours now if you want it. It’s got quite a few kinks, still, but we’ll get them right. There’s a new button here – “

Arthur trails off, suddenly unsure. Harry is gawking at the restored motorcycle one moment, and the next he is clearing his throat and taking off his glasses so he can rub at his eyes.

“Harry…?”

He finds himself with an armful of scrawny, eighteen-year-old boy; messy hair and crooked wireframes and a heart that is cracked and damaged but is also irrevocably Ginny’s.

Arthur doesn’t hesitate before wrapping Harry in a tight embrace, just like he would any of his other sons.

 


	3. Percy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m planning on probably adding in a few non-Weasleys, just to spice things up. Sirius and Remus for sure, and I’d also like to do McGonagall and Hagrid, and maaaaaybe I could be persuaded to do Neville and Luna, if that’s something you’d be interested in reading.
> 
> Percy is probably (other than Ron) the Weasley that I identify with the most. His chapter is a bit different in that it’s not broken up into years, because I wanted most of the focus to be on him during OotP through DH. Also there’s not a whole lot “Harry through his eyes” because I feel like Percy was on his own journey through the books. But I greatly enjoyed writing this, and I hope you like it.

The thing about being the middle child in a family the size of the Weasleys, is that everyone is special except for you.

Bill is cool, charming with his smiles and clever with his marks. No one is surprised when the Head Boy badge falls into his hand the summer before his seventh year. Girls sigh over his kindness and the dimple in his right cheek when he smirks. Teachers shower him with House points and write glowing letters of recommendation when he starts applying for jobs.

Charlie has got the same charm, only his is delivered in rakish grins and the crazed gleam of adventure in his eyes. He flies like he’s not even on a broom – like he is one with the wind and sky and was born for the sole purpose of living far above the ground. He comes home with burns and scars and tattoos, referring to every dragon responsible for the injuries the same way an overly doting mother refers to her spoiled child.

Fred and George are _loud_. They are sticky and messy and they take a perverse pride in fooling people into thinking they’re much stupider than they really are. (In a true stroke of genius, the ruse lasts until they are out of school, free to use their considerable intelligence for their jokes and profit rather than for essays). But their laughter is contagious, their ridiculous antics make their mother smile even as she shakes her head in despair over their futures.

Ron doesn’t think he’s special. But then he walks into his Sorting Ceremony alongside The Boy Who Lived, and before Percy quite realizes what’s happened, his baby brother has defeated an enchanted chess set and rescued Ginny and in the years to come it is undeniable that awkward, bumbling, red-eared Ronald knows Harry Potter better than anyone else alive.

Ginny…well. She hardly needs anything to make her special – at least, that’s what most people think of the _girl with six brothers_. Then they see her fly, and she becomes that _scary Weasley girl who plays brilliant Quidditch_ instead of anyone’s little sister.

Percy watches his family crowd into the small kitchen, sees his mother count coins to pay for secondhand books and patch Ron’s robes again when he hits another growth spurt.

Though his mother would protest, Percy is not exceptionally clever – his marks indicate otherwise but no one except perhaps Oliver Wood knows how many hours he spends poring over books and perfecting essays. Everyone assumes he is simply trying to follow Bill’s footsteps, that his ambition is to simply be another son whose polished photograph will have a place of honor on his parents’ mantelpiece, whose accomplishments will be the subject of conversation at every family dinner.

He seeks his father’s approval, his mother’s pride, as does any child of their parents. Their praise on his marks and on his prefect and Head Boy badges are words that he savors, repeats them to himself every time the twins are mucking about and Ron nearly gets himself killed (and later, every time Mr. Crouch peers down at him and gets his name wrong).

But it is more than his parents’ commendation – it is going to get a drink in the middle of the night and discovering his mother waiting up in the kitchen because his father had to pull an extra shift at work just so they could afford to send both of the twins to school. It is his mother getting up at dawn every day to feed the chickens and gather eggs, because it costs far less than it does to purchase the eggs from someone else. It is the flush on the back of Ron’s neck every time Draco Malfoy throws a barb at the secondhand robes or wand or broom.

No one else seems to mind like Percy does. Every slight against his family, every dig made at his father’s tiny office and his mother’s nicest dress robes that are older than Charlie – it makes something ugly twist and fester within him.

Not towards his parents; his father can appreciate the beauty of intelligence anywhere he sees it, and has found a job that allows him to pursue it. There is nothing dishonorable or shameful about wanting to protect Muggles from enchanted toasters.

But he wishes he could throw his own gold into Lucius Malfoy’s face. Most of all he hates the way the rest of them laugh it off, say it doesn’t matter because all the gold in the world can’t make the Malfoys morally respectable people.

And, deep down, he knows they’re right. He knows there is more to live for than a full Gringotts vault.

But Merlin, he is so _sick_ of his family having to pretend that their lives wouldn’t be easier if they just had a bit more.

So he studies and studies and studies some more, and gets near perfect NEWT results and comes home from his interview with Barty Crouch with a steady salary; his dreams of filling his parents’ vault with gold just within reach.

His plan to obtain a cushy job at the Ministry only gets him so far when his boss keeps disappearing, however. When Harry Potter stumbles out of the maze clutching a dead classmate and covered in blood, Percy isn’t really sure what to think.

You-Know-Who, back to full strength? The thought makes every fiber of his body cringe away in terrified denial – and it appears that the Minister feels the same way.

Percy keeps to himself in the days after that. He’s been given indefinite leave from work until this whole mess gets sorted out, and he’s been watching his mother pack up the family to go spend the rest of the summer in London so they can help Dumbledore with the war efforts.

His head spins a little every time he thinks of it. _War efforts_. His parents, with their chickens and creaky old farmhouse and patched robes – they’ve enlisted to help fight the most powerful and evil Dark wizard alive.

Bill and Charlie have signed up as well, though the latter will be doing most of his work undercover in various different countries. Bill will be using his training as a curse breaker to help strengthen the defenses on…whatever it is they’re guarding. Percy tends to drift away from conversations on this topic, mostly due to the panic that claws its way up his throat whenever he imagines himself dueling Death Eaters.

He’s not going to kid himself. He’s no curse breaker or dragon tamer. He doesn’t have the twins’ ingenuity or Ron’s stubborn tendency to survive the most harrowing near death experiences. He doesn’t have Ginny’s Bat Bogey Hex.

He’s just Percy – stuffy, irritable, brownnoser Percy Weasley who only got as many OWLS as he did because he didn’t sleep for almost three weeks before the exams.

At night he sits in his room, staring out the window. He can faintly hear the ghoul from the attic, and the twins snoring in tandem next door. Normally he would be able to hear Ginny’s window creaking open when she goes out to fly in the orchard, but with the looming threat of You-Know-Who, she stays inside every night.

Percy hasn’t missed the confused glances his siblings have been throwing him. They are particularly obvious whenever Bill and Charlie are mentioned. The twins squint at him, Ron won’t meet his eyes, and Ginny frowns. He can read what they’re all thinking – _what are_ you _going to do, then?_

He doesn’t know.

What’s worse, he doesn’t know if he _can_ do anything.

And then Cornelius Fudge enters Percy’s dingy little office, and a golden opportunity plops straight into his lap.

It’s perfect, he thinks. He wrinkles important parchments in his rush, accidentally shutting the end of his scarf in his briefcase and having to yank it free as he sprints out the door, glasses askew. All this time, he’s been wondering what on earth _he_ could contribute to a war, when the answer is really so simple. He doesn’t have to get involved – he can stay back, hold down the home front while the cleverer, smarter, stronger people do the fighting. He can ensure his parents don’t have to worry about groceries or new school robes on top of everything else.

Upon hearing the news, his father’s grin slides right off his face, and all of Percy’s elations and visions go with it.

“Junior Undersecretary to the Minister…” Arthur Weasley mutters. He rubs one hand through his thinning hair. “Well, son, I’m sorry it’s happened this way. I though Fudge was above manipulating families…how did he take it when you told him no?”

Percy feels something twist his stomach painfully. “Father…I – I didn’t say no.”

Why should he have said no? Can’t any of them see this is the best he can do?

His father blinks. Behind them, his mother stills over the dishpan; Bill and Charlie are stood on either side of her like sentries. Their disapproving frowns are not softened by the pain in their mother’s eyes.

“Oh, Percy…” she whispers.

“What?” He snaps to the defensive. “What was I supposed to tell him? Don’t you realize what an opportunity this is for me?”

“For you?” His father’s voice is quiet, but shaking with anger that has rarely been directed towards his children. “An opportunity for _you?_ Can you even hear yourself, son? Don’t you understand what’s been going on? We’re at war – people are likely going to die, people like Hermione Granger are going to be walking targets before this is all finished – “

“Of course I know what Harry’s saying,” Percy says, but the rest of his sentence is cut off from a new voice in the corner.

“What did you say?” Ron steps forward. He’s got several inches on Percy, now; Bill used to be the tallest but now Ronald looks him eye to eye. The youngest of the Weasley sons, and the look in his eyes is making Percy’s knees shake. “What’s that supposed to mean – _what Harry’s saying_? You don’t believe him, then?”

How can he? How can anyone believe it, that the walking nightmare whose name is too dreadful to say is back?

Percy doesn’t say any of that, but his silence is enough for Ron, whose eyes darken even further.

“You little _ponce_ – “ is all Percy hears before a fist collides solidly with his nose and he staggers. Their mother cries out, but it’s just the one hit. Percy regains his footing. Charlie has got Ron by the arms and is wrestling him up the stairs, curses and oaths being shouted by both of them. Bill gets Ginny and the twins to leave as well before he rejoins their mother in the kitchen.

“How can you not believe him?” Arthur asks, with the air of someone who valiantly trying to maintain control of his temper. “Son, did you not _see_ him last June when he got out of that maze? How could you possibly think he’s making it all up? And all of these disappearances – “

“I’m perfectly aware of what’s happening, thank you.” Percy snaps. He wipes his bloody nose on his sleeve.

“Are you?” Bill asks, his voice quiet and all the more dangerous for it. “It doesn’t sound like you really understand.”

Percy can’t even look at him.

“Or maybe,” Bill continues, “you understand just fine. You just don’t care.”

“Why do I have to?” Percy’s own anger is kindled now, spurred by his throbbing nose and the fact that the best news of his life has been met with disapproving frowns by his family. “There are scores of people lining up behind The Chosen One, let _them_ risk their necks. Why does it always have to be us?”

His father is looking at him as though he is unrecognizable. “Percy, it’s _not_ just us! For Merlin’s sake, do you think _Harry_ asked for this to be his life? He’s been right in the middle of it all since he was a baby! And Hermione – you think _she_ wants to have a lot of ruthless murderers breathing down her neck just because of who her parents are?”

“And what are we supposed to do?” Percy’s never shouted at his father – he doesn’t even recognize his own voice. “This is the most powerful, most evil wizard in the history of mankind, and you expect me to think we’re going to trot off to battle him like it’s dueling club at school?”

“Yes!” His father thunders, swearing for the first time in Percy’s living memory as one fist slams onto the table. “Yes, I do! Because I raised you to do what’s right, even when it’s not easy!”

“No, you raised me to be content with patched robes and with living in a pigsty!”

The moment the words leave his lips, Percy wishes to take them back. But it’s too late; his mother has both hands clapped over her mouth and her brown eyes are shining with tears. Bill looks too gob smacked to be angry, though Percy knows that won’t last.

Arthur is the worst – all fury is drained from his face, replaced with horror.

“Percy – “

For some inexplicable reason, Percy’s mouth won’t stop running. More words pour out, angry and sharp and he doesn’t mean any of them, not a single syllable.

“I suppose you expected me to be like you,” he says, suddenly noticing his glasses are still crooked from when Ron punched him. He straightens them with shaking hands. “No ambition, no desire to _do_ anything worthwhile – just stuck in that shed with all your collectibles, tinkering away and ignoring the fact that your children could’ve done without the shame of – “

A thick, muscled forearm is suddenly against his throat, pushing until his back hits the wall. He blinks down into Charlie’s murderous scowl.

“Charlie.” Bill calls, warning.

Percy doesn’t realize his brother has lifted him off the floor until his feet touch back down.

“Perce, get your stuff. We’ll go to my flat tonight, talk this over when everyone’s heads are cooler.” Bill squeezes their mother’s hand but she still lets out a shuddering sob, refusing to meet Percy’s eyes.

“No.”

Everyone – his parents, Bill, Charlie, and the four younger ones spying from the first landing of the staircase – freezes and stares at him.

“What?” Bill says.

“No.” Percy can’t breathe, his speech finally catching up with him and choking him more than Charlie just has. “I don’t need your charity. I’m done. I’m no soldier, I’ve got a job and responsibilities and can’t go running off the fight wizards who disappeared over a decade ago.”

“You’ve got a job.” Arthur says, voice hollow.

Percy squares his thin, hunched shoulders and meets his father’s gaze. “Yes. I’ve got a job. A rather important one. And I’m to report to the office early first thing in the morning.”

There’s a long beat of silence, and Arthur moves to the side, clearing Percy’s way to the stairs.

“Go, then. If that’s what you want.”

Percy makes certain to hold his nose in the air. “It is.”

(Is it?)

/

The months slip by in a monotony of grey, of avoiding his brothers’ letters and trying to find something to wear in the cold winter months that wasn’t made by his mother.

He writes Ron, out of motives so purely and devotedly selfish that it’s a mercy the kid didn’t Floo to Percy’s flat just to punch him again.

He spends far too much time with Dolores Umbridge, to the point where he hears her stupid laugh in his dreams.

He sees his father in those dreams as well, a father who laughs and smiles in relief that the clumsy weakling was finally out of the house, that at last they could be free of lectures on cauldron-thickness and wasn’t it nice that Ginny had the twins and Ron to look after her at school, rather than the sod who let her get abducted her very first year –

He often wakes hours before his alarm sounds, and lies on his back with nothing but his misery for company. He usually memorizes the water stains on the plaster of his ceiling. Muggle London is certainly not prime real estate – his flat makes the Burrow look like palace, and a much cleaner one at that.

But how can he go back?

How can he face Harry, the boy who has gotten Ron into more scrapes than can be healthy, but has also delivered his brother safely home every time? Percy’s spent the past several months calling him a liar. Where, exactly, does the road to restoration begin when the starting point is so bleak?

He runs into Charlie, when the latter is at the Ministry under the guise of getting some grant requests approved for supplies on the dragon reserve. Charlie catches his eye and immediately looks away, the trademark muscle jumping in his jaw, which tells Percy the public setting alone has saved him from another bloodied nose.

/

His youngest two siblings fight Death Eaters, and they win.

The irony is enough to make Percy bang his head into the wall, but at the moment he is waiting in Madam Pomfrey’s office. He Flooed in without asking her first, because his anxiety has reached the point where things like manners don’t matter to him anymore.

Pomfrey shrieks when she sees him, but Percy doesn’t even take the time to apologize.

“Are they all right?”

Pomfrey stares at him, fright forgotten in her surprise, and after a moment she points at the door.

“They’re all asleep, you should have a few minutes before everyone arrives.”

He doesn’t know whether to be grateful that she knows he doesn’t want to see his family, or ashamed that she knows he lacks the courage to. But he goes out regardless, and spends several long minutes at the doorway, staring at the six sleeping kids – kids who have taken up arms in the fight he claimed was too big to win.

He still thinks that, which makes him angry as he looks down into Harry’s pale, drawn face. Why has this kid decided to be the hero? Why not let the grown-ups handle it?

 _Perhaps because he knows grown-ups like you, and you_ aren’t _handling it_ , a snide voice tells him. He shakes himself and turns to Hermione’s pale form next. She looks almost ashy, which Percy is smart enough to know means she’s lost a lot of blood. He tries not to think about what kind of spell Hermione Granger wouldn’t have been able to block that could cause this kind of injury. Still, she’s breathing calmly and Pomfrey didn’t seem worried.

Neville is next, along with the blonde girl Percy doesn’t recognize. They look the same as the others – tired and in need of a strong cup of tea, but like they’ll mend all the same.

He can’t avoid the last two beds any longer; he takes a deep breath and turns to his siblings.

The pale scars along his brother’s arms are hauntingly beautiful, like elegant white-ink tattoos. Ron has grown another six inches or so; his feet are hanging off the end of his bed. His hand twitches every few minutes, but his face is smooth as he sleeps.

Ginny is snoring, curled up on her side like a cat. Her hair is longer and more vivid than Percy remembers it; it’s fanned out across her pillow and he can smell the perfume on it, the realization all but punching him the stomach. He bought her the very first bottle of that perfume for her thirteenth birthday, saying that he would try to not treat her as a child the way the rest of their brothers did. She hugged him tightly round the neck for it.

Odd, he’s thought all this time she’d changed the fragrance long ago.

His mouth feels dry as he looks down at two of the people he loves more than anything, knowing that once again they faced the enemy without him. This time, though, it’s worse – always before, he’s never known about the danger until it was already passed. Ron and Ginny were walking away from the Chamber of Secrets before Percy even was aware of its existence.

But this time – this time, Percy _could_ have known. Had he stayed, had he swallowed his pride in the past months, he would have been doing his turn on guard duty, would have perhaps spared his father a nearly fatal wound, would have perhaps been able to prevent his brother and sister and their friends from falling for You-Know-Who’s trap –

The list goes on. The possibilities of horrible things that could have been avoided had Percy actually grown a pair and acted with a shred of common sense are innumerable.

But he didn’t, and so they weren’t.

And so, when he hears his parents’ frantic voices echoing up the hall, he slips back into Pomfrey’s office and tosses the powder into the green flames.

/

Fleur Delacour is waiting on his front stoop, one rainy evening almost a year and a half later.

The death of Alastor Moody – the very man whom Percy’s deranged boss’s son tried to kill two years ago – was not in the papers, was not spoken of at the Ministry at all. But Percy knew about it, because someone in the Order is sending him weekly updates on the goings on. He doesn’t know who it is, and he doesn’t want to know who it is. He’s just glad it’s happening.

Still, the sudden appearance of his soon-to-be sister in law startles him a bit, enough to make him nearly drop his sack of groceries.

“Ah – erm, come in, then.” He fumbles with the key. She has said nothing, merely watching him with those too-blue eyes that see far too much.

He gets them both a cup of tea, invites her to sit on the rickety old sofa that smells like cats. She takes the mug and puts it on the table without taking a single sip.

Percy sighs.

“Ve vould like for you to come to our vedding.” She says without preamble.

Percy looks at her. “I highly doubt the _we_ in that sentence is true.”

Fleur shrugs. “Bill vill not say so. But I know ‘im, and ‘e wishes for you to be there, even if everyone ees too proud to admit it.”

Percy takes a drink of tea, more to give himself a moment to wrangle his emotions back under control than anythying. Fleur, he is positive, sees right through the move. But her eyes do not shine with pity, and for that he is grateful. He does not deserve compassion.

“You vere self-eesh.”

He pauses mid drink, looks at her over the rim of the chipped mug. His glance must echo the _beg pardon?_ that’s rattling around in his head, for she shrugs again.

“I am not saying eet vos a great crime. Ve are all self-eesh every now and then. But you are choosing to be self-eesh now because zat is all you theenk you are capable of.”

Percy forgets he is holding the mug at all until his grip becomes so tight that his knuckles crack. He hastily sets it down next to hers.

“Fleur – “

“Come home, Percy.” Those eyes – it is little wonder what Bill has found so enrapturing about this woman.

“I can’t.”

“Yes,” she corrects him with a loud, unapologetic voice. “You can, and if you do not now you vill regret it later.”

He nearly laughs. He’s been regretting it since he walked out the door. But how can he go back? How would he survive his family telling him it’s too late, that they don’t want him anymore? That good riddance, he has his _cushy job_ , doesn’t he?

“I’m sure it will be a lovely wedding.” He says this while looking at the beauty mark by her right eyebrow. It lets him feel like he’s looking her in the eye while he knows that he’s too cowardly to do so. “You and Bill have my best wishes.”

Fleur snorts, not angry but not willing to coddle him either. “Yes, I am sure zat will be vot helps us vin the var,” she says as she stands and crosses the room to leave. “ _Best vishes_.”

She pulls a piece of parchment, purple emblazoned in gold, out of her handbag and leaves it on his kitchen table. Then she crosses back to him, and leans down to kiss his forehead.

“Your familee loves you, Percy. And they vant you to come back ‘ome. No matter vot ‘appens, do not forget zat.”

She leaves, quietly, pretending not to see the way his eyes are glistening.

/

Six weeks later, and the Ministry has fallen.

Bill and Fleur’s wedding was crashed by Death Eaters, Ginny was tortured for information on Harry, Ron and Hermione’s whereabouts, and Percy is the only Weasley currently not under suspicion by the new regime – and that is only because one Dolores Umbridge vouched for him.

It’s enough to make him spend every waking hour vomiting.

At night he stares at the wedding invitation Fleur left; the _what ifs_ plague him until he fears he is going insane. What if he had gone back? Would he have been tortured instead of his baby sister? Would he have been the one to be on the receiving end of Fenir Greyback’s wrath instead of his handsome, charming brother?

Charlie has gone off the grid, hunting things far worse than dragons in the far reaches of Western Europe. Fred and George’s shop has been the target of no less than fifteen raids in the past month, costing them hundreds of Galleons each time. Ron is Godric knows where, and Ginny is locked up in a castle with demonic bastards who believe torturing eleven year olds is a good confidence booster for the older students.

Percy has noticed his hair getting thinner, much like his father’s. He’s honestly not surprised.

Until one day, he stops by Umbridge’s office for some paperwork, and he sees a file labelled MUGGLEBORN REGISTRATION.

And just like that, another golden opportunity slides into his lap.

/

It takes some doing. After all, he can’t be too eager or he’d rouse suspicion. Umbridge is accustomed to his methods of oiling up to the highest bidder, and so when he offers to do any paperwork she might be behind on, she gladly stacks the files into his arms and tells him to get on with it.

That first night, at his dingy kitchen table, Percy manages to erase thirty-two Muggleborns from the record.

He holds his breath the next day, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Umbridge is pleased as punch to have a desk jockey now, and from then on the Muggleborns land directly in his inbox.

It helps tremendously that the Death Eaters sent out to round up the Muggleborns are neither the best nor brightest at You-Know-Who’s disposal. He makes up names, puts down false addresses, and after a while once his own family goes into hiding he doesn’t care if he gets caught – in fact, he knows he’s going to be eventually. But he can save as many of them as he can before it happens.

/

Thanks to one lucky bathroom break that allowed him to be round the corner from Umbridge and her second-favorite secretary, he knows he’s been had. He heads to the toad’s office instead, and Floos to his flat and Disapparates from there.

He doesn’t really have a plan of where to; his preparations extended to having a bag packed and making sure the Untraceable Charm Bill taught him years ago was intact, keeping the Snatchers from finding him. He pulls out the small wireless and fiddles with it as he walks through orchard behind the Burrow. The place is cold now, in late March, with the frozen brown grass crunching beneath his feet.

The wireless squawks in his hands, but Percy still hears the twig snap to his left and drops the radio. His wand is in his hand, the smooth eleven inches of oak firm between his fingers in a way that it never has been.

The Shield Charm makes a noise like a clanging gong when the curse hits it; the hooded figure behind the tree darts away and Percy stops thinking about anything other than the look on his father’s face, shouting “ _I raised you to do what’s right, even when it’s not easy!”_

Percy snarls, the hex flying out of his wand and hitting the running Death Eater in the back. He walks over, kicks the unconscious body over, and considers the vaguely familiar face. He thinks he might have seen the man coming and going at work.

He starts to walk away, but then a memory surfaces – of Dumbledore’s Army and the genius of Hermione Granger.

He smirks – he makes no claims to be as clever as Hermione, he can’t make it permanent. But he can make it last long enough to get his message across.

A few minutes later, he leaves the Death Eater propped up against a tree, with ugly purple bumps on the man’s face spelling out the words: _you will never find them_.

/

Percy stumbles into the Hog’s Head and flinches as the old barkeeper swears loudly.

“For the love of Merlin’s saggy left – “ the man throws his rag onto the counter and points rather aggressively at a portrait above the fireplace. “It’s _that_ way, go on.”

Percy mutters his thanks and scurries away; he can hear nothing in the tunnel, which means either nothing bad has happened yet, or that everything bad has happened already and he’s too late.

He stumbles again into the brightly lit room full of hammocks and House banners and his family – all staring at him with wide eyes that are full of equal parts suspicion and hope.

Fleur – bless her – tries to give them a moment, to give him, Percy, the prodigal coward, a chance to right his wrongs with dignity. And suddenly, he can’t stand it, can’t stomach the thought of letting his pride dictate a single one more of his actions.

“I was a fool!”

Everyone jumps a little, but he only has eyes for the ones with red hair.

He manages to stumble out an apology, and almost is too afraid to believe it when his father pulls him close and hugs him tight enough to crack a rib. Bill is next in line, and smiles as he holds out an arm.

“Perce, this is my wife. Fleur.”

“We’ve met,” Percy manages, and hugs this beautiful woman with a joy he hasn’t felt in a very long time. “Thank you,” he whispers in her ear. Her own arms, willowy and strong, return his embrace as though he is her brother returning home.

“You remembered.”

For a moment he frowns down at her, puzzled. “Of course I did – I was too stubborn to listen at the time but your words meant a great deal to me, Fleur, I – “

She shakes her head, smiling radiantly. “Not my vords,” she says. “You remembered your familee loves you.”

It is enormously unfair; he’s _just_ managed to stop crying. He tells her this and she laughs, the sound high and musical like silver bells.

“Do I need to be worried?” Bill asks mildly, looking too pleased about their rapport to be genuinely upset.

“Heavens, no,” Percy chuckles and mops his eyes. “She’s lovely but I’ve never been much of one for blondes.”

Everyone laughs, but then the castle shakes and the somber mood returns as swiftly as a dementor’s shadow.

Percy joins his family upstairs, in protective spells and charms and throwing vicious hexes out of the broken windows. He steadies the students – surely not all of them can be of age – and when the front doors at last give, he is in the Entrance Hall to meet whatever may come.

/

He is uncertain how time passes, after that.

Certain moments feel as they stretch across decades. Others feel like they rush by so fast all he can gather from them is a blur of colors, sounds and emotions stronger than a hurricane.

The moment he sees Fred’s eyes staring lifelessly up at the ceiling feels like it last an entire lifetime.

His duel with Yaxley, afterwards, is as though several years are consolidated into a few seconds.

Once the Death Eaters have retreated, he is almost as afraid to join his family in the Great Hall as he has been the past three years to be around them at all. But he refuses to shy away – if George hates him for the rest of their lives, so be it. It won’t be because Percy was a coward again.

He makes it three steps inside the doorway when George comes barreling toward him, wrapping stocky arms around his torso and gasping between sobs.

“Yaxley – Ron said – we thought you – “

Percy holds his brother and cries with him. Once they can both speak again, Percy uses a filthy corner of his shirt to clean his glasses.

“Yaxley.” George says in a hollow voice.

“Dead.” Percy looks him in the eye. George nods slowly, and together they make their way down the hall. Their mother smothers them both, and they gladly let her. Their family, with the addition of Hermione – or rather, he thinks once he sees the way she and Ron cling to each other, the inclusion of her – huddle around Fred’s body. Percy is unable to look at him but cannot abide the thought of leaving, and so he holds his mother’s hand and tries not to lose his footing in the storm of grief.

/

Ginny’s scream when she sees Harry’s body tells Percy many things.

First, obviously, is that while he’s been off earning a salary just for being a prick, his baby sister has grown up and has fallen in love. He highly doubts it is unrequited.

Second, is that while he managed to right his wrongs with his brother before he lost his chance, he failed to do so with Harry.

And that thought sits bitterly in his stomach, and sours the taste of victory even after Harry comes back to life (again) and You-Know-Who’s corpse is thrown out and the food starts appearing on the tables.

All Percy can think of is that he spent a year backing the administration that made Harry’s life miserable, and the need to apologize nearly drives him batty.

His father finally notices, and asks what the matter is as they trek up to Gryffindor Tower for some much needed rest.

“I never said sorry to Harry.”

Arthur blinks, surprised. “I don’t think he’s worried about that right now, son.”

“Probably not,” Percy agrees. Harry has long perfected the art of ignoring the opinions of stupid people. “But I was still wrong.”

“Yes,” Arthur says. “But that won’t be an easy conversation for either one of you.”

Percy shrugs. “You raised me to do what’s right even when it’s not easy.”

Arthur’s eyes are moist when he claps a hand on the back of Percy’s neck and tugs him closer; Percy basks in the knowledge that the state of his Gringotts vault has never mattered less.

/

He does apologize, in the end. Harry squints up at him in confusion before shrugging.

“Can’t say I blamed you. I didn’t want to believe it either, I just wasn’t given a choice.”

It’s more than Percy expected, and from then on Harry always tries very hard to act interested about Ministry regulations for cauldrons.

/

One year later, Percy is the first of the uncles to hold his niece. Fleur places her into his arms with a gentle smile. Percy stares down at the perfect blue eyes and the hair that glimmers red-gold in the brightly lit hospital room.

“She’s perfect.”

Bill nods. “We were hoping you’d be godfather.”

After Percy manages to quit crying, he has to laugh. Middle child he might be, but _he_ is godfather to the most beautiful baby girl on earth. And that’s all he really needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly we need more people like Fleur in real life okay
> 
> Also I made myself cry a lil bit over this one too so please like it


	4. Charlie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to be dramatic but I’d die for Charlie Weasley

 

**I.**

Charlie is as surprised as anyone to hear that Ron’s best mate at school is none other than Harry Potter.

He gets the letter from his mother one cold, snowy morning in early December; the dragons have all been fed and there are six cases of scale rot that need tending and they are down three Tamers besides, and so the letter goes into his pocket and is nearly forgotten until he undresses that night to shower before bed.

His exhaustion nearly causes him to miss the tidbit his mother throws in about Harry Potter’s deplorable upbringing; even when he rereads the letter the next morning he is sure his mother is exaggerating.

Then Ron writes, and Charlie decides that victory over You-Know-Who aside, Harry Potter is a decent enough boy. He certainly risks expulsion by smuggling a baby dragon up to some of Charlie’s coworkers, and when Ron says in his next letter that Harry plays Quidditch (and is, incidentally, the best Seeker Gryffindor has had since Charlie himself, as well as the youngest one in a century), Charlie has a feeling that Harry Potter is not going anywhere anytime soon.

**II.**

He’s right, obviously.

He doesn’t get a chance to see Ginny off to school, which he thinks might disappoint him more than it does her, but still he sends her the biggest bar of chocolate he can find in the village that’s just down the road from the sanctuary.

It’s not as though he expected her to write him every week – she’s swept away with her first year at Hogwarts, same as he was. But when Halloween comes and goes and he still hasn’t heard anything, he asks his mother. And he gets some troubling news.

Hogwarts was always safe – the safest place in the world, Hagrid used to say. To think that the kids there now are worrying about being attacked between classes makes his stomach sour with worry. He’s distracted at work, which gets him landed in the infirmary every other week until his boss comes in and gives him a tongue-lashing worthy of his mum.

After that, he tries to put the troubles at Hogwarts out of his mind. His parents are closer to the school anyway, so if anything did happen they would get there first. But Charlie is uncomfortably aware that only he and Bill are no longer there – every last one of his remaining siblings remains in harm’s way.

Which is why when his father Floos him one night in late spring, Charlie’s first instinct is panic.

“What’s happened?” He knocks over his chair when he gets up from the tiny table too fast, kneeling before the kitchen grate.

Arthur’s face is haggard but he’s smiling.

“Your sister had – er, well, she had a bit of an incident at school. She’s all right, though.”

Charlie swallows, hard. He can tell from the residual exhaustion and worry in his father’s face that _a bit of an incident_ is the merest tip of the iceberg. “Can…can I see her?”

“She’s asleep, just now.” Arthur looks apologetic. “I’m sorry, son. We just didn’t want you to be caught unawares if one of the others said anything to you about it. She’ll be fine, I promise.”

He picks at an old blister on his palm; it’s not quite a callous yet but the skin is already hard and tough, giving him something to focus on while he tries to wipe the worry off his face.

“I’ve got some vacation days piled up,” he says, casual. “Don’t suppose you’ve got room for one more?”

Arthur smiles. “You know you don’t have to ask to come home, Charlie.”

It’s the answer he knew he would get, but somehow it’s relieving to hear the words. “Tell Mum I’ll be at breakfast.”

/

The twins nearly kill him in the yard, though to their credit (sort of) it’s by accident; their mother sent them to de-gnome the garden first thing on summer holidays and George, in a bet against Fred, managed to send one clean over the kitchen roof, missing Charlie’s head by inches.

After everyone has stopped shouting and the poor gnome has properly been tossed over the garden fence, Charlie finds himself crammed between Percy and Ron with his mother’s cooking piled onto his plate.

He loves his job, really he does. Dragons are the only thing he can imagine spending his whole life chasing and never getting tired of. But the crowded, scrubbed farmhouse table at the Burrow has a pull on him like no other place on earth does. He bumps Percy’s elbow to make him slosh his orange juice, and smirks at the twins before asking Ron about this past year’s Quidditch season.

Ginny isn’t at the table, but their parents assure them all that she’s fine, just tired. Charlie believes them until a terrible, heart-wrenching scream echoes from upstairs.

He beats them all there, even though he was seated furthest from the staircase. He flings the door open to find his baby sister thrashing on the bed like a wraith from the depths of hell is chasing her.

“Gin!” he grabs her shoulders, shakes her. “Ginny, wake up!”

“Ginny, dear,” Molly cries, trying to smooth Ginny’s hair but Ginny won’t hold still. She’s still screaming, weeping even, and still fast asleep.

Charlie bends over the bed, puts his face inches from hers, and shouts like he does at his dragons.

“ _Ginny!_ ”

Those big brown eyes pop open, wide first with terror, then with shock.

“Charlie?”

Secretly, he’s relieved she’s recognized him so quickly. But he just nods.

“Yeah, it’s me. You all right, Gin?”

She starts to nod, but her face crumples and before Charlie can do anything else, she’s mashed her face into the crook of his shoulder and is sobbing as though her heart is broken. He hears the rest of his family quietly shuffle out the door, but he just pulls her close and lets her cry.

It takes several, several long minutes, but at last her tears are spent. Part of him wouldn’t be surprised if she’s cried herself back to sleep, but once the sniffles have almost died down she sits back a little.

His gut wrenches. Ginny looks awful – and not just because she’s been crying. Dark circles under her eyes, paler than she’s ever been, and thanks to the better part of fifteen minutes he just spent holding her, he knows she’s lost weight. Too much, if her bony wrists and hollow cheeks are anything to go by.

Worse than all of that, though, are the shadows in her eyes. Her tears haven’t chased them away, and something tells Charlie that nothing ever will.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

He frowns, puzzled, before following her gaze to his shirtfront that’s now damp with her snot and tears. “What, this? These are the cleanest bogies I’ve had on me in months. And they don’t burn through my clothes, either.”

That gets a tiny smile out of her, which is a good sign. He wipes one of her cheeks dry with his thumb.

“Want to talk about it?”

For a moment, he thinks she’ll say no. But she sniffs, and looks towards her window. Something like determination steals across her features.

“Not here.”

/

Charlie loves the apple orchard behind the house. More than he loves anything else about home, really. Memories, golden and untarnished, have been made here for as long as he can remember.

It was here where the twins told Ginny that she was too little to play Quidditch with them, causing her to run back inside in tears. That night, Charlie taught her to fly, after everyone else had to gone to bed; she rode in front of him at first, then did practice laps around the clearing until she was flying better than the twins could ever hope to.

(Bill, incidentally, taught her to pick the lock on the broom shed with Muggle bobby pins so she could continue practicing once he and Charlie were gone from home).

And so, Ginny feels the same way, which makes the orchard _their_ place in his mind.

Even now, walking amongst the trees rather than flying, it’s peaceful. Charlie habitually puts his hands in his pockets when he walks but he’s careful not to do so now; Ginny’s arms are crossed over her middle but if he knows his sister, he knows she’s going to need another hug or ten to muddle through whatever it is that’s upset her so badly.

She doesn’t say anything until the house is no longer in sight. And once she starts, she can’t seem to stop.

She tells him all of it.

How she humiliated herself in front of Harry Potter half a dozen times every day over the summer.

How an empty book she meant to use for a private diary suddenly became more than a place to vent her feelings for her brother’s best mate – it became a friend, a source of reassurance that her feelings weren’t silly or juvenile.

How her at first assumptions, then later self-assurances that the diary was a surprise going-away gift from their parents faded with every attack at school.

How she tried to go to Ron and Harry for help, she tried to get rid of the diary that made her do bad things, but nothing seemed to work.

How Tom made her write her own death sentence in blood, made her go alone to the Chamber and told her she would never see her friends or family again.

How he told her it was her fault, all of the terrible things that happened.

How she woke up to Harry covered in blood and sweat, how their father’s initial reaction was pure disappointment that she did not keep herself safe.

How, even now that Tom is gone, she hears him whispering to her in her dreams.

Charlie keeps silent through it all, piecing together what’s happened to his sister in the space of one year.

When at last she finishes, he looks over at her. She seems no better, but he wasn’t hoping for that. He knew about one-fourth the way into her story that merely talking about it wouldn’t fix it.

At the moment, he’s so angry at their father that he wants to punch a tree. But he swallows it, focuses on the way Ginny is twisting her shaking hands together and doesn’t even seem to be aware of it.

Calmly, he reaches over and takes one of them in his. She clutches him tightly, wraps her other hand around his arm and lays her head on his shoulder as they walk.

Charlie takes a deep breath.

“Want to know what I think?”

“Hmm?”

“I think Gryffindor should ditch the lion and make you the new mascot.”

A pause, then Ginny’s head jerks up off his shoulder. Her expression can only be described as incredulous.

“What?”

“Gin, if anyone deserves to be in the house of courage, it’s you.”

“Did you not hear a word I just said?” she protests. “I’m the one who hurt all of those people!”

“That’s not what you said. That’s what _Tom_ said.” He arches an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you believe him over your big brother?”

Caught, Ginny flushes, looks down at her feet. She mumbles something that he doesn’t catch, but it doesn’t matter. He puts an arm around her shoulders and tugs her close to his side.

“Gin, the things you’ve seen and been through this past year would frighten anyone. They would frighten _me_ , and you know I’m not afraid of anything.”

Ginny nods. “Except for Mum.”

“That’s different,” he chastises, poking her in the ribs.

She huffs a semblance of a laugh, before he pulls her to a halt so he can look her in the eye. “Listen to me, Gin. Someone else taking advantage of you means that they’re a bad person, not that you’re a weak one.”

She processes this for a long time. Finally she says, quietly, “He _was_ a bad person. He was awful, said I should do horrible things to anyone who upset me or made fun of me.”

“And what did you do when he said that stuff?”

“I told him I couldn’t, that I _wouldn’t_. But then I would end up doing those things anyway, I just wouldn’t remember doing it.”

“He was using you, Gin.” He squeezes her shoulder. “He was a monster, and you were just the first person he came across.”

Something dawns on her face.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she says, voice full of wonder. “I was the first – if anyone else came across that diary, those things still probably would’ve happened.”

“No doubt in my mind,” Charlie agrees.

She makes a sound that’s half laugh, half scoff, and presses a hand to her face. “I was just the first. I wasn’t vulnerable or weak. I was just the first.”

“Just the first,” he tells her firmly. “That’s all.”

Ginny smiles, and it’s like the dawn is breaking.

/

Charlie stays a whole week before his vacation days run out.

He spends every night on the floor in Ginny’s room; her nightmares are slowly subsiding but he still wakes at the smallest whimper from her bed.

On his fourth day, he walks in on Ginny and Arthur having a talk; she tells Charlie later that their father apologized for his scolding words.

He feels a lot better about leaving, after that.

He Apparates from the front lawn; the twins try to sneak a gnome into his knapsack but he boxes their ears hard enough to appease even Molly (“you dimwits, a dragon would eat one for breakfast”). Ron grins and awkwardly thumps his back – he’ll be the tallest of all of them, that one. Charlie tugs him down to mutter in his ear.

“When you see Harry again, thank him for me.”

Ron looks puzzled, before he glances over at Ginny; he nods fervently.

Percy huffs when Charlie tousles his hair, their parents hug him close and give him advice on getting a haircut and which Apparation points to avoid in Europe.

Ginny’s last. She’s up early today, and while he’s glad that she’s seeing him off he hopes she’ll go back to bed once he leaves. For now, though, he drops his knapsack and tucks her under his chin – he won’t be able to do that for much longer, he realizes suddenly. She’s growing up, his baby sister. This past year has certainly had a hand in speeding up the process, but he’s confident now that she’ll be okay.

“Write me,” he tells her.

She nods against his chest. “Will you read my letters to your dragons?”

“I already read _my_ letters to them as I’m writing them, Gin. They’ll think I can’t do anything on my own.”

That makes her giggle, and he takes the memory of her smile and his mother’s parting embrace with him when he leaves.

**III.**

Charlie, though he would certainly have enjoyed visiting Bill with the whole clan, can’t bring himself to regret using all of his vacation days on his trip home. The picture that his mother sends him shows a Ginny that looks leagues better than she did when he left.

His optimism is short lived when word comes that dementors visited the school train.

He spends half his grocery money for the week on an express owl, writing his sister and ensuring she’s all right.

Her reply is concerning, but not in the way he expected.

_The dementors were awful, Charlie. It was like Tom was in the room with me all over again. I’ve never felt so cold._

_Harry had it worse than me though. He fainted straight away, onto the floor. He was so embarrassed when he came to; he kept asking who was screaming._

_Draco Malfoy somehow found out about it, and he’s been teasing him ever since. I’m hardly surprised that Harry is so sensitive to the dementors. What if it’s because he remembers what You-Know-Who looks like? That would make me faint too, no question._

Her letter goes on about her classes, a new friend she’s made ( _everyone calls her Loony Lovegood but she’s so nice, Charlie. She’s the only person in my year that isn’t walking on eggshells around me”)._

Naturally, he sits and ponders the kid named Harry Potter for a while after that.

It’s never really occurred to him, what Harry likely went through the night You-Know-Who disappeared. Even if he doesn’t remember anything, the fact remains that he lost both of his parents at an incredibly young age, and was sent to live with his Muggle relatives (who, incidentally, possess an extraordinary talent for provoking the terrifying wrath of Molly Weasley – a talent that is unsurpassed by anyone else, even the twins).

Now, it appears that Harry does in fact possess some memories of that night that changed his life. Charlie winces. No kid deserves that; even less does he deserve to be mocked for it.

He feels a prick of annoyance, that this kid he’s never even met is worrying him so much. Charlie has five younger siblings, an older one whose job is almost as dangerous as Charlie’s is, and parents who continually struggle to make ends meet; he has enough to worry about as it is.

And yet this boy who has befriended Ron, who has impressed the twins with his wit, and then turned around and impressed their mother with his manners…

Charlie can’t get him out of his head. Maybe it’s because Harry’s the one who brought Ginny back, or maybe it’s because Arthur waxed poetic about Harry’s extensive knowledge regarding Muggle currency. But everything Charlie’s heard about Harry Potter so far has left him with the distinct impression that the poor kid needs a family more than he needs anything else, and the Weasleys have unofficially taken him in.

Which, in turn, means that Charlie _has_ to worry about him. That’s his job.

He thinks about the way Ginny blushes whenever she says Harry’s name, and he grins.

He doesn’t mind worrying all that much, anyway.

**IV.**

_Merlin_ , but Ginny looks better.

She’s grown up quite a bit; certain tendencies or quirks that she’s always had no longer seem childish, but have an unmistakable girlish quality to them. She flips her hair whenever she’s angry, and her scowl is so reminiscent of their mother’s that he almost feels sorry for her future children.

But all of them have grown up, really.

Ron now towers over him, though his voice still cracks and he seems to be all arms and legs, scrawny enough for Charlie to lug about with one arm if need be.

The twins have funneled their manic-like energy and mischief into creating a real business. A business which, from the glimpse Charlie gets of their work before Molly destroys it, could really turn a decent profit. He’s impressed, and also terrified at the thought that Fred and George’s main aspiration in life is to help other children be more like them.

Percy…well. Percy hasn’t really changed. He’s just gotten more intense, like aged firewhiskey. He _won’t_ shut up about his new job, and Charlie is happy for him but also wants to retain his sanity and so he stops listening after the third or fourth time he’s subjected to Percy’s description of Mr. Crouch’s impeccable record.

Bill being home at the same time is great; they swap stories of their most dangerous near-death-experiences at work when their mother isn’t around and take turns dodging her pleas for them to get their hair cut.

Ginny, to his surprise, is enraptured with his newest tattoo. She’s ogling it one afternoon in the sitting room; their father, Ron and the twins are off to retrieve Harry, and Bill is currently hiding upstairs while their mother gets started on supper (Percy, as always, is _working_ ).

He flexes and the dragon spreads its wings over his arm. Ginny beams.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yeah,” he tells her honestly. “But it was worth it, don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” she nods. “I’m getting one, when I get old enough.”

“Getting one what, dear?” Molly appears in the doorway, mixing something in a bowl.

Ginny instantly schools her expression. “Oh, erm. A nice desk job, like Percy’s got.”

“An excellent plan,” Molly says approvingly. “Charlie, won’t you go fetch Bill? I need the tables moved out into the garden, there’s simply no way to fit all of us in the kitchen.”

The moment she disappears, Charlie winks at Ginny before going to do as bidden.

/

Charlie shakes Harry Potter’s hand, and immediately knows that he guessed correctly. This kid is positively starved for familial affection; it’s in the way he stares almost hungrily at Ron and his siblings whenever they’re bickering or playing together. It’s in the shy smile he gives Molly whenever she fusses about his clothes or refills his plate. It’s in the way he soaks up the golden hours of summer, of laziness and Quidditch in the orchard that tells Charlie this boy is unaccustomed to being so at ease.

He catches Ginny staring at him one evening, walking back to the house from the orchard. He bumps her shoulder with his, laughing when she jumps and blushes furiously.

“Oh, shut up,” she huffs.

“I get it now,” he tells her. “He’s very dreamy.”

If possible, she turns even redder. She swats him, before biting her lip.

“You…you approve, then?”

Charlie blinks, surprised. “Gin, you don’t my permission. Or anybody’s, really.”

“I know,” she says, quiet. “I just…don’t really trust my judgment yet.”

He purses his lips. “Hm. Well, whenever I’m doubting myself I always ask why.”

“Why am I doubting myself?” she asks, incredulous.

“No. Why do you fancy him? Is it just because he’s Harry Potter? If so, that’s not bad on your account, you just might not want to act on it since I doubt he’d appreciate it.”

Ginny frowns, thinking. “No, I…” she blushes. “The first time I saw him, on the platform at King’s Cross before Ron’s first year. We didn’t know who he was until after he’d got on the train, but I remember thinking he had awfully nice eyes.”

Charlie hides his grin, privately vowing to himself that _awfully nice eyes_ will be in his speech at the wedding.

“And…Ron talked about him so much, the next summer, and then of course he came to visit and I couldn’t go more than five minutes without breaking something. But he always pretended to ignore it, like he didn’t want to embarrass me. He’s always been like that. He’s just…nice.”

“Nice is a good place to start,” he tells her, glad but not surprised that she’s got her head on straight. “At the very least you know he’s a good friend. Without that there really couldn’t be much else.”

Ginny nods, thinking. “He is a good friend. To Ron and Hermione both.”

He grins. “Sounds to me like your judgment is just fine.”

Her answering smile turns into a scowl when he musses her hair.

/

By the time he makes it to Hogwarts, Charlie is more than a little exhausted.

Transporting four female dragons with their eggs across Europe and out of sight from Muggles was a special kind of nightmare; he manages to find one day to sneak off to the Burrow for a solid twelve hours of sleep and his mother’s cooking.

When he returns to the castle, Ron is waiting for him down at the paddocks.

“What are you doing here?” Charlie has to reach up a fair distance to thump his baby brother on the shoulder.

Ron shrugs. “Bored. Hermione won’t quit nagging me to study.”

Charlie knew that Ron and Hermione spend most of their time at each other’s throats, but the bitterness in his brother’s voice surprises him.

“Everything all right?”

Ron follows him into his tent, watches him change from travelling clothes to work gear. “Yeah.”

Charlie tugs his dragon-skin vest over his head, and gives Ron and unimpressed look. “I though the twins gave you lessons on lying.”

Ron’s ears flush, and he fidgets before blurting, “Harry’s name came out of the goblet.”

“Yeah, I heard.” Charlie fastens his utility belt and waits patiently.

“It’s…it’s just annoying. He can’t go more than a day without being in the spotlight before doing something to drag everyone’s attention back to him.” Ron crosses his arms and scowls at the dirt floor.

Charlie knows he’s staring, but he doesn’t really know how else to react. Ron looks up at him expectantly.

Charlie clears his throat. “That has got to the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Ron blinks. “What?”

“How did he get in the spotlight in the first place, huh?”

“…he beat You-Know-Who.”

“You idiot, did you forget what else happened that night? Or are you too busy admiring the battle scar on his forehead to remember that his parents died, probably right in front of him?”

Uncertainty begins to steal across Ron’s brow. “I…”

“And all that, Ginny’s first year? Don’t look like that, it wasn’t any more your fault than it was hers,” he rolls his eyes at the guilty way Ron squirms. “You think he enjoyed everyone else thinking he was the one putting all those people in the hospital wing?”

“Well, no,” Ron admits. “He was pretty upset about it, actually.”

“So you’re telling me that you actually believe enjoys it, enough to the point where he’d deliberately do something to make people look at him?”

Ron’s mouth opens and closes several times before he clears his throat. “Oh.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Charlie mocks him. He shakes his head. “Look, Ron – I haven’t known him for nearly as long as you have, and I can already tell he just wants to be normal. And that won’t ever happen for him, so there’s not much sense in you being angry at him for it.”

“Oh,” Ron mumbles again, blushing and staring at his feet. “Reckon I should apologize, then?”

“Yeah, probably.” Charlie rolls his eyes but tugs Ron down for a brief hug. “Go tell him that the first task is dragons, that’ll be a good way to break the ice.”

“Dragons?” Ron’s eyes light up.

“What did you think I brought here, flobberworms?”

/

Charlie won’t admit it under pain of death, but watching Harry fly makes him feel old.

The stories weren’t exaggerated – this kid is _good_ , probably one of the best he’s ever seen.

Better still is the sight of Harry exiting the tent afterwards, Ron beside him, both with matching grins as they discuss the task. Hermione trails along behind them, looking fond but extremely annoyed, and that’s how Charlie knows things are back to normal.

He grins, and checks with Madam Pomfrey just he can tell his mother he’s sure Harry wasn’t seriously injured.

/

Charlie, not expecting visitors, is watching the Muggle telly in his pants. The knock on his door is in the pattern that he and Bill developed as kids, so his heart is already pounding when he runs to open it.

“What is it?” he asks, going cold all over at the look on Bill’s face.

“You-Know-Who is back.”

Charlie doesn’t realize he’s still gripping the doorknob until his knuckles crack; he closes the door and watches his older brother collapse into a kitchen chair, looking positively aged.

“What?”

“The third task. It was all a setup – Mad Eye Moody was a hostage all term, a Death Eater’s been in his place, getting close to – “

“Harry,” Charlie finishes, sinking into the other chair. “He’s – ?”

“He’s alive,” Bill sighs. “But he saw him come back, and I don’t want to know what that all entails. The look in his eyes is bad enough. Pomfrey gave him Dreamless Sleep Potion, and Mum’s sitting with him. He’s still crying in his sleep.”

Charlie’s heart _aches_.

“The other Hogwarts kid is dead,” Bill says tiredly. “He got dragged along to wherever they took Harry for the…the ritual. Harry brought the body back, wouldn’t let go until Dumbledore talked him into it.”

“How did he get back?” Charlie asks.

“Portkey. The fake Mad Eye made it a portkey to whatever corner of hell they used to bring You-Know-Who back to life, and Harry managed to use it to get himself and the Diggory kid’s body back to Hogwarts. Appeared out of nowhere, right there on the lawn. Mum was frantic.”

Charlie doesn’t say anything for a while; he’s trying to process that the shy, goofy kid he watched fly against a dragon last autumn is probably not there anymore.

“Dumbledore wants to see you,” Bill says at last.

Charlie was expecting that from Bill’s opening sentence. He grunts in reply, and goes to find some clothes. He’ll miss work tomorrow, but his boss will understand if it’s a family emergency.

Frankly, Charlie doesn’t much care if his boss understands or not.

/

Harry looks awful.

He doesn’t even seem to be aware of Charlie’s presence, so Charlie leaves him in the care of Ron and Hermione, presses a kiss to his mother’s cheek, and trots off after Professor McGonagall to see the Headmaster.

“This is not a requirement of you, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall tells him.

He raises his eyebrows, keeps pace with her down the corridor and up two flights of stairs. “I know, Professor.”

“It will be dangerous,” she says under her breath. “The job the Order will ask of you – “

“Well, everyone knows I decided to chase dragons because I hate a good adrenaline rush.”

She stops and faces him in front of the gargoyles. “Mr. Weasley, please understand – this is your choice, and yours alone. You are young, have your whole life ahead of you – “

“So does Harry,” he interrupts softly. “And so do all of the Muggleborn kids who haven’t got their letters yet.”

She takes a shaky breath, and nods before giving the password.

**V.**

Charlie’s schedule hasn’t really changed much.

He still wrangles dragons, though he’s got more paperwork since he requested to take over the Infirmary. Whoever holds that job is in charge of ordering supplies for the entire sanctuary, which makes it a lot easier to smuggle information for the Order in and out of Romania.

Dumbledore has been thrilled with what Charlie’s given him so far – two tribes of giants, in the southern mountains, centaurs in the forested hills, and a decidedly unfriendly colony of merpeople in the Black Sea.

Charlie doesn’t know what Bill is doing, and doesn’t ask. He also doesn’t ask what his family is doing back home (except for Percy, which is to say _nothing_ ), and after his father is attacked at Christmas they stop exchanging letters all together.

It’s for the best, he knows. Dumbledore warned him before taking this assignment that cutting off all contact would be a real possibility. But the silence is the worst part of it all. His only solution is to distract himself with his dragons, which earns him several more scars to impress Ginny with when he finally goes home again.

He tries not let himself wonder _if_ he’ll ever go home again.

**VI.**

Upon seeing the list of budget cuts (most of them in terms of security) the sanctuary will be taking in the next year, Charlie decides the new Minister is really not that much of an improvement.

For Merlin’s sake, does the man not realize he has three Aurors here, working undercover? Charlie knows, their names were smuggled to him by Dumbledore so he would know who to trust.

He understands that security measures are probably being tightened on the home front, but handicapping your own troops, putting them closer to the line of fire than is necessary…

He scowls, rubs his jaw in irritation. He’s too distracted to shave these days, which means his whole face is either freckled or looks like a bonfire. The giants in the Southern Carpathian Mountains are holding out again, even though Charlie is smuggling away all of the dragon hide and blood he can possibly get away with to bribe them into sharing whenever the Death Eaters come to call.

Which, incidentally, has been increasingly often these past few months.

Dumbledore may be a bizarre eccentric, but he’s smart, and he knew that the enemy would be taking this beyond the borders of Britain without as much as a by-your-leave. That crazed maniac wants global domination, and it’s thanks to Dumbledore that the Order of the Phoenix got to Romania first, since the British Ministry of Magic has proved itself to be utterly useless so far.

Oh, the Aurors placed here at the sanctuary wouldn’t betray Charlie, of that he’s certain. But they’re also a couple of dimwits; he’s never missed Tonks so badly in his life.

He feels increasingly trapped and alone, and it just gets worse when word comes that Dumbledore is dead. He doesn’t know who his reports are going to, but he knows it matters that he sends them.

So he does.

/

His father shows up in the dead of night soon after that, and Charlie actually cries into his shoulder.

“Charlie, you’ve got to come home,” Arthur says. “It’s not safe here, anymore.”

“It was never safe,” Charlie reminds him, putting the kettle on. “And I can’t leave now. They’ll burn the sanctuary to the ground.”

“What, do you think one wizard will stop them?”

“No,” Charlie smirks, hands his dad the cream and leans his chair back on two legs. “But one wizard leading a bunch of _really_ pissed off dragons might make them rethink their options.”

Arthur sighs. “I’m not going to tell your mother you said that.”

“Good idea; she’d come here next and honestly I can’t handle her and the dragons.” Charlie drops his chair back down with a thump. “Dad, I can’t leave. The job’s only half finished.”

“You’re on your own,” Arthur says heavily. “The Aurors have been called back home.”

“I was as good as on my own anyway,” Charlie shrugs. “I took the job knowing that.”

Arthur hums, and Charlie can tell that the way this conversation is going isn’t surprising him.

“Perce come round?”

His father hesitates; Charlie scoffs, wishing he’d beaten Ron to the punch that awful day in the Burrow’s kitchen.

“Not yet,” is Arthur’s eventual reply. The hope and hurt tangled together in his voice makes Charlie’s chest ache.

“Everyone all right?”

Arthur stares at him, as though asking himself if he’s really going to let his son stay here, in such danger. He knows it’s a lost cause, because he shakes his head ruefully.

“Yes, except Bill had a run-in with Fenir Greyback the night Dumbledore died.”

Charlie nearly drops his mug. “ _Merlin_ , Dad, lead with that next time, won’t you?”

“He’s fine,” Arthur assures him. “Greyback wasn’t transformed. Bill’s face is heavily scarred, but he wasn’t bitten.”

Charlie takes a deep breath, trying to get his heart rate under control.

“And the others?”

“All fine. Ginny and Harry split up, so she’s not been herself.”

“Hang on,” Charlie can feel his first grin in _months_ coming on. “Split up?”

“Yes, they dated for quite a bit of the last term. But – “ Arthur frowns at his empty mug. “Er…this is a very long story, do you – ?”

Charlie obliges with firewhiskey, which helps ease the ache with every item of family news he’s missed since going dark.

Bill is getting married (Charlie vows to be there, even if You-Know-Who himself comes to the sanctuary).

Fred and George have at last opened their joke shop, and are rolling in gold.

Ron had his own romance troubles this past term, and also nearly died from accidental poisoning only for Harry to save him (Charlie hides his snort; bloody _typical_ ).

Ginny, apparently, has got the Chosen One wrapped around her little finger. Only said Chosen One doesn’t want to put her in danger, and so they’ve parted ways and now his baby sister is practically a whole continent away, nursing a broken heart and Charlie can’t do one thing about it.

 _Yet_ , he tells himself. He’ll sit with her while she drinks herself silly after Bill’s wedding in a couple of months.

Arthur tries once more to get him to leave, but eventually just hugs him close again.

“Be careful, son.” He holds the side of Charlie’s face for a moment. “Please be careful.”

“I will,” Charlie promises, refusing to let himself cry again.

It only lasts until his father leaves. Then, Charlie slides down to sit against the closed door, and sobs until his throat is raw.

**VII.**

Charlie is tackled in the yard by Ginny and the twins. It hurts a lot more than he remembers it ever having done before.

“Look at that bush!” George says, sitting on Charlie’s chest and looking scandalized. “You look like a wild man, Charles. Entirely inappropriate for our dear brother’s wedding.”

Charlie squints up at him, spits Ginny’s hair out of his mouth. “What in the name of Circe’s tits happened to your ear?”

“Well, I puzzled for months about what to get Harry for his seventeenth birthday, but turns out a severed ear wasn’t on his wish list.” George helps Charlie to his feet, and frowns when Fred nudges him.

“Oi,” Fred says warningly. Harry, Ron and Hermione have come around the house from the chicken coop. All three of them are discussing something very seriously, until Ron spots him.

“Charlie!”

Charlie tries not to feel shocked by how much weight Ron’s put on. He’s still thin, but he’s definitely no longer scrawny. Charlie hugs Hermione too, and catches his baby brother giving her a look of such adoration that it’s a wonder the twins don’t call him on it.

Harry has changed a great deal as well, which is expected and yet also hard to see. He’s a good deal taller, standing just a few inches shy of Ron. There’s a determination to him, a hardness to the set of his shoulders that tells Charlie this kid hasn’t forgotten about the war, regardless of impending wedding festivities.

Charlie only smiles, and lets his mother bemoan the state of his hair and beard, and unpacks in his old room, now shared with the twins. He pulls a clean shirt out of his knapsack and grins at the stain on the wall above his bed, left by one of Fred and George’s earlier experiments.

It’s good to be home.

/

Bill has, as Charlie delights in informing him, married _up_.

Fleur is beautiful, obviously, but her blue eyes shine with intelligence and when she answers Fred’s teasing with a witty remark of her own, Charlie can no longer hide his approval.

“She’s great.”

Bill hums happily, watching his wife converse with guests. “Yeah.”

“Giving up the tombs of Egypt, then?” Charlie means it as teasing, but Bill’s expression sobers, still watching Fleur.

“Not really giving anything up, you know? I loved it, I did it, I finished it and I came home. Now I’ve got something better.”

Charlie wonders if it could ever be that simple for him. He knows it can’t, not at least until the war is over.

“You all right, Charlie?”

He startles, realizing he’s been staring into his drink. “Yeah.”

At Bill’s speculative look, he shrugs. “Just…missed a lot, being gone for so long. Still trying to regain my balance.”

His brother nods, before noticing something over Charlie’s shoulder that makes him smile.

Charlie smiles too, when he turns and sees Ginny dancing in very peculiar way next to an equally peculiar looking girl dressed in bright yellow.

“She okay?”

Bill hums. “Yeah. Harry’s taken it almost as hard as she did. He’s rather smitten.”

Charlie smirks. “You know, she told me the first thing she noticed about him was that he had _awfully nice eyes_.”

Bill laughs, the scars on his face fading momentarily. “We’ll have to remember that one.”

“We will,” Charlie agrees. He points at Bill. “You’d better make sure that’s used in a speech at their wedding, if I don’t get the chance to be there.”

Bill’s smile vanishes like a puff of wind, and Charlie wants to kick himself for souring the mood.

“Charlie – “

“I mean, if I’m not back from Romania yet or a dragon breaks loose of the sanctuary or something else work-related happens.”

Slowly, Bill nods, his brow furrowing as he undoubtedly picks up on the panicked edge to Charlie’s voice.

“Right. “

Charlie stares at him a moment longer, and hears the music change. “I’m gonna go dance with Gin.”

He claps his brother’s shoulder, kisses Fleur on the cheek, and works his way through the crowd.

Ginny beams at him. “Charlie, this is my friend Luna Lovegood. Luna, my brother Charlie.”

Charlie remembers the name from a letter that feels like it was sent decades ago. “Very nice to meet you, Luna.”

“Hello,” she responds dreamily, still waving her arms above her head. “Would you like to join me? This is the traditional mating dance of the Eastern Long-Haired Demiguise.”

“Er…” Charlie blinks. “I think I’ll just steal my sister for a dance, if that’s all right.”

“Oh of course. Have fun Ginny!” Luna floats away, smiling as she continues to wave her arms about.

Ginny giggles. “She’s really nice.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, leading her over to a spot where they can hear each other better. “Anyone who dances like that in public without shame is worth knowing, in my opinion.”

She smooths his robes over his shoulder. “You look nice, Charlie. Better without the beard.”

“It was itchy,” he agrees. “And you look better than nice, Gin. Harry hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off you all night.”

To his horror, Ginny’s face crumples momentarily before she pulls herself back together.

“Aw, Ginny – “

“I love him, Charlie.”

Those big brown eyes are wide open, and he can see the truth in them.

“Which is why this hurts so much,” she admits softly.

He knows what it’s cost her to say that – growing up, before they knew better, the twins and Ron were always quick to tease her for crying over small injuries. Never mind the fact that _they_ were in always hysterics over every scraped knee; no, she was the youngest and the only girl and they had to have their target practice. The result was Ginny _never_ admitting something hurt, even if it was serious. She sprained her ankle one day, de-gnoming the garden, and nobody knew until their mother noticed the discoloring the next morning.

So Ginny acknowledging her pain…

It just makes him hurt for her more.

“I’m sorry, Gin.” He squeezes her hand. “It’ll be all right in the end.”

“You don’t know that,” she whispers. He looks at her, his baby sister a woman grown, and knows his days of feeding her reassuring half-truths are gone.

“No, I don’t. But I hope for it, and that’s better than nothing, right?”

She gives him a searching, quizzical look, opens her mouth to say something –

A silver Patronus appears in the middle of the dance floor. The moments after Kingsley’s voice fades away are charged with a fear so strong it sits like iron on his tongue. Charlie catches his father’s eye over the crowd and nods.

He turns to Ginny. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, squeezing her shoulders. “Be safe, okay? And don’t give up hope.”

He presses a quick kiss to her forehead, and slips outside, sprinting away from the screams and sounds of breaking glass, until he reaches the barrier and Apparates away from the place he wants to be more than anywhere else.

/

The dragons are happy to see him back, anyway. That’s something.

Somehow, though, his days of paperwork and tending sick dragons are unbearably lonely when he returns. He thinks he might be going mad – starved for contact with his family for so long, then to have them all so close for a few precious days, and now to be isolated once more, only this time with no end in sight…

He tries not to think about what might have happened at the Burrow after he left. His imagination won’t do him any favors and it’s not like there’s much he can do about it anyway.

As the war takes turn after turn for the worse, the dragons become ever more irritable and stroppy. He spends nearly all of his off time slathering burn paste all over himself like some kind of greenie.

Sometime around Christmas, a message comes from the Order (they’re rare now, but he knows they’ll come eventually, otherwise he wouldn’t stay). He rereads the message about _Potterwatch_ several times in disbelief, and stares at the small wireless radio in the attached parcel, wishing he knew who the sender was so he could cry over them, kiss them, thank them, something to express what it means that he’ll be able to hear familiar voices here in his exile.

/

The Death Eaters come just after Easter.

Only, as it turns out, they’re not here for the dragons.

Charlie realizes this when a Killing Curse misses his head by centimeters; he looks at the smoking crater in the wall next to him in disbelief, then in outrage.

Dueling isn’t something he’s highly trained in, but he’s always had quick reflexes and a tendency to keep getting back up. His opponent doesn’t last long, which gives Charlie a few precious minutes to spring to his cabin. Everything that could possibly connect him to his family or the Order has either been destroyed or sent to Bill for safe keeping.

He has a bag ready; he snatches it and his wireless and slams the back door behind him even as footfalls pound on his front steps. He has to dodge more than one curse as he runs, but he makes it past the barrier – only just – and Disapparates.

His last glimpse of the sanctuary is one with the Dark Mark hovering in the sky above.

/

He sticks to the eastern mountains; there are some nasty breeds of wild dragons out this way that will deter any search parties from getting too close.

Of course, that means Charlie has to put up with wild dragons who want nothing more than to eat him, but he’s highly trained in dealing with that and so he sticks with his comfort zone.

Weeks blur into months, the dragon eggs begin hatching, and Charlie hunkers in a cave with his radio one spring evening, twiddling the dial until he hits the right station.

He nearly drops the wireless into his cookfire.

“If you’re listening,” Fred says calmly, “you need to know that it’s happening tonight. You-Know-Who and his army have gathered outside Hogwarts, and we’re all headed that way to join the fight. If you’re interested, Apparate into the Hog’s Head pub in Hogsmeade. The barkeep will show you the way. Be careful, they’re still patrolling the village.”

The wireless screeches quietly, then goes silent.

Charlie stares at the fire, his meager dinner of pheasant roasting in the heat. He shrugs the blanket off his shoulders, feeling as though he is suddenly a very old man.

Woodenly, he dumps a bucket of snow onto the fire, crams the last of his berries from his latest trip down the mountain into his mouth, and leaves his prison with a joyous _crack_.

/

His parents both sob openly – so does he – when he runs through the door.

“Oh Charlie dear,” his mother pats his face, his arms, as though to make certain he is really all here and not a figment of her imagination. Satisfied, her gaze returns to his, and she frowns. “Dear, you really must get a haircut when this is all over – “

“Mum, you can shave me bald if you like, I’m so happy to see you I don’t care.” Charlie bends, wraps his arms tight around her, and lifts her off the ground slightly.

He turns from his father’s embrace next, stopping short in surprise.

“Erm…hello.” Percy shift awkwardly.

Charlie stares. “Finally cottoned on, did you?”

“Yes,” Percy says, looking down at his feet. Charlie suddenly feels lighter than he ever remembers feeling before.

“Good.” And he pulls Percy in for a bear hug, complete with a very whiskery, smacking-loud kiss on the cheek that makes everyone laugh.

The sound of that laughter, the peace that comes from simply being with the ones he loves, are some of the reasons Charlie survives the night. He’s certain of that.

Another reason he makes it through is that he nearly barrels into Tonks at one point, and he cries again when she shows him photographs of her son.

It turns out to be good timing on his part; when the cease-fire is called, he returns from the courtyard, half-carrying a Ravenclaw student with a badly broken leg. He hands him off to Pomfrey and turns back to the double doors to go look for more survivors.

He stops dead in his tracks when he sees that mop of electric purple hair, lying so still and pale beneath the enchanted ceiling – the ceiling that he used to sneak out at night to look at with her, lying atop the House tables and making up their own constellations…

“Charlie?”

Dimly, he turns to see Ginny. He thinks she might have been calling his name for a while; he pushes Tonks and her newly orphaned child to the back of his mind when he sees the look on his sister’s face.

“What is it, Gin?”

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out but a strangled sob. His heart is like a block of ice in his chest.

“Gin, _what is it?_ ”

“Fred,” she gasps, one trembling hand reaching for him. He takes it, without really registering the feel of her holding onto him. He notices the group of redheads in the back of the room, huddled together in disbelief and sorrow.

Charlie joins George on the floor, kneeling beside Fred’s pale face. At first he thinks George feels the same way he does – numb and frozen solid to his very core. But after a moment or two George reaches out shaking hand to rest on Fred’s shoulder. Suddenly George is doubled over, sobbing so hard he can scarcely draw breath.

Charlie does what he has always done for his siblings – he holds him close, though he knows it is not enough, and simply lets him weep.

/

Charlie doesn’t remember much after that, except for random, often fuzzy details.

He remembers there was another bout of fighting, during which his mother further solidified her place as the single most terrifying yet amazing person he has ever known in his life.

He remembers Ginny’s awful scream when she saw Harry’s body.

He remembers the look of sheer relief on Harry’s bloodied, gaunt face, shining in the dawn’s first light.

He remembers sitting at the table in the aftermath, watching as Ron pressed a tired kiss to Hermione’s temple.

The last gives him an indescribable amount of peace. Stuff like that’s what they fought for, he thinks while treating himself to a heartier breakfast than he’s had in months. He shovels an enormous mouthful of toast and marmalade in, and looks up to see his father smiling. Not a true smile, it doesn’t go all the way up to his eyes. But it’s there in part at least, and Charlie will take what he can get.

“What are you going to do now?” his father asks.

Charlie considers. He hadn’t really thought that far, but in this moment only one thing sounds remotely appealing to him.

“I’m going to petition the new Minister of Magic to open up our own dragon sanctuary right here in Britain.”

Delight shines in Arthur’s eyes. “Are you really?”

Charlie nods. “I’ve had my fill of being away from home,” he says quietly. He knows all the things about his past few months pass, unspoken, between them – the four or five very close scrapes with the wild dragons, the times he nearly lost toes to frostbite, the constant ache of hunger…

“I’m sure Kingsley will be all ears,” Arthur replies, his eyes wordlessly offering a listening ear should Charlie need it.

Charlie nods, in response to both messages “I’ll try to get his attention tomorrow. For now, though…”

He drains his teacup, and leans over to call two or three seats down.

“Hey Mum, could I have a haircut?”

/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so hugely, immensely sorry, this was supposed to be a quick little one-shot like thing and instead it’s...this *gestures vaguely*

**Author's Note:**

> I made myself cry for this so you guys bETTER LIKE IT.


End file.
